Dead Ringer
by dreamsofhim
Summary: Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, “Never been proved.” Until now. Grissom & Sara, established relationship. STORY ON TEMPORARY HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Takes place CSI Season 7. Contains references to CSI Season 1, _Strip Strangler_. No spoilers.

Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **smacky30**, **vrtrakowski**, and **scifijoan** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story, when complete, will be novel length (projected final word count is 60,000 words). What this means for you is that it takes a little while to build. I promise it's worth the investment of your time.

_Dead Ringer_ is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ For those of you unfamiliar with the film _Manhunter,_ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom.

As I was winding up _Ghost_ (quite sure I would never have another idea or write a single word again), it hit me that a _CSI/Manhunter_ crossover had a lot of potential, despite its equally great risk of cheesiness. I thought, "Who doesn't like cheese?" and plunged ahead…I mean…Gil Grissom and Will Graham _look just alike!_ Who knew? The story is not quite that simple, though. I hope you enjoy it.

This is my first genuine Work In Progress. YIKES! So, bear with me as I walk this lonely road of complete insanity (because, I must be insane to be doing what I swore I would _never_ do). Stop that laughing…it's not funny. _IT'S NOT! _

**Posting Schedule:** THIS STORY IS ON TEMPORARY HIATUS.

**PROLOGUE**

**Cincinnati, Ohio – 2005

* * *

**

Candle light flickered over her skin, rendering it a soft gold. The man worked tirelessly between her thighs, his sweat dripping where he'd tucked his head against the juncture of her shoulder and neck. As he rode his release, back arched to bury himself deeper, his roar of triumph echoed around the room.

Rolling off her, he took a last look at her serene and beautiful face and the dark hair splayed prettily around her, the fluttering light still giving the illusion of animation to her frozen features. He hadn't meant to kill this one. Messengers were supposed to be breathing when placed, but his passion had gotten away from him. He'd just have to deal.

The soldering iron he'd plugged in on the nearby counter was hot. He didn't like the look of the orange extension cord he'd been forced to buy, but a two foot cord was too short for his purposes and soldering irons just weren't available with long cords. He'd looked.

Grasping the cork collar of the tool, he referred quickly to the notes he'd made. The letters must be just right, centered properly across the skin of her abdomen. Taking a breath, he started to burn The Message on his human tablet.

_I have not forgotten._

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

_Neither gods nor men can foresee when an evil deed will bear its fruit._

_Bodhidharma_

**Thursday, December 28, 2006 – Las Vegas, NV

* * *

**

Annoyed, Grissom said, "What do they need me for, Conrad?"

"It was a special request from Quantico, Gil. They want you to be a part of a Profiling Task Force," Ecklie said soothingly, knowing he had his work cut out trying to convince Grissom to cooperate with the FBI.

"I'm not a profiler. I'm an entomologist." Grissom sat back in the client chair in front of Ecklie's desk and exhaled noisily. "The FBI is run over with profilers…they don't need me to pad the ranks."

"The Sheriff is honored that Las Vegas was contacted and that the FBI asked for one of our people…you…by name. He is inclined to grant their request, unless you can give me a good reason to say no – and I mean a _good_ reason, Gil, not that you think the FBI employs a bunch of arrogant assholes."

Grissom said, not quite under his breath, "Well, they do."

Ecklie rolled his eyes, knowing that his most useful tool – an appeal to vanity – was useless on Grissom. He pulled out his ace in the hole. "Gil, you and I both know you're going to have to do this because the Sheriff wants this particular feather in his cap. The only thing I can offer to make it more palatable is to assign CSI Sidle to accompany you as your assistant."

It was many years before Conrad Ecklie again saw a stunned and speechless Grissom.

xxx

" Quantico? Really? For a month?" Sara asked, obviously pleased.

"You don't have to look so thrilled," Grissom grumbled.

"Are you _kidding?_ This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Gil. We get to be part of a forensic think tank for a month – together – away from the scrutiny of the Lab. What's not to like?" she said, puzzled by his attitude.

"Sara, why would someone at the FBI ask for me? I'm not a profiler. I do bugs. I'm _great_ with bugs, but profiling? I don't get it."

"First off, don't sell yourself short. You've solved your share of serials…Paul Millander…Syd Goggle…" Sara said, ticking off cases on her fingers.

Grissom interrupted, "I didn't solve those cases alone, Sara: they were all team efforts…"

Cutting him off with mock exasperation, Sara said, "OK, have it your way…except we both know who led the Las Vegas Crime Lab to its current position as number two in the country…and who trained most of the CSIs – the team – who keep us there."

Since she was right there wasn't much he could say. But he wasn't in the mood to give in. "I'm still not a profiler," he said grumpily.

"So somebody made a mistake. We still get to go do something interesting _together._ Don't look a gift Task Force in the mouth," she teased, crossing from her spot in the kitchen to plop down into his lap. "For two workaholics like us, I can't think of a better vacation."

Grissom wrapped his arms around her and kissed the grin off her face, "All right. It probably will be interesting and we'll be able to bring back our experience to the Lab."

Sara kissed him deeply and then pulled back, "And…"

Smiling, leaning close to spread kisses from collarbone to ear, Grissom whispered, "And we'll have a month pretty much to ourselves – a luxury under any circumstances."

"Absolutely." Giggling because his breath tickled, Sara kissed him one more time and got back up to finish chopping the vegetables she'd been working on.

He watched her from the couch, still slightly amazed that he and Sara were a couple, practically living together, and that their relationship when it came out had caused only the tiniest ripples of interest at the Lab. They still felt pressure, mostly from themselves, to keep personal and professional boundaries intact – the feeling of scrutiny was part of the vigilance they'd adopted to insure the integrity of their work and evidence they collected.

A month out of the fishbowl…that would be great.

Still. Why him? _"Not enough data,"_ he thought, shrugging. Delicious smells from the kitchen broke into his thoughts. Accompanied by a rumbling stomach Grissom went to the kitchen, stopping just behind Sara. He put his arms around her waist as he looked over her shoulder, "Need any help?"

**Friday, December 29, 2006 – Quantico, VA

* * *

**

At the FBI Training Academy in Quantico, Virginia, the Director looked over his phone messages. "I see we have an acceptance from Las Vegas."

Agent Rick Culpepper shifted uneasily from his spot near the door. "I still think that invitation was a mistake. He's not a profiler."

The Director looked over the top of his glasses, "Don't pout, Culpepper. Whatever he is, he's good. The Las Vegas Crime Lab owes its reputation to him and he's solved a number of serials…including the one you were SAC on, as I recall."

"Don't remind me," he said, pouting nonetheless.

"Look, you know what we're trying to do with this Task Force. I'm having enough trouble without static from you."

Sighing, Culpepper left his vantage by the door and sat on the couch next to the Director's desk. "Well, if you ask me, it's a lost cause."

Ignoring his agent's attitude, the Director continued to sort through his messages.

Agent Culpepper took out a cigarette and started to light up. Sharp words shot across the desk, "Don't smoke in here, and for the record, no one asked your opinion."

Angry blue eyes flashed at the reprimand. "Why are you trying to resurrect the dead, Crawford?" Noting the Director's second trip through the messages, he said, "Graham hasn't accepted yet, has he?"

Annoyed, Jack Crawford carefully straightened the small stack of pink paper and placed it in the center of his blotter. "He will, one way or another, Culpepper. I owe him that," he said.

**Saturday, December 30, 2006 – Marathon, FL

* * *

**

Agent William Foster pulled up in front of the bungalow hoping this would be easy and knowing it wouldn't be. _"God, I hope he's not drunk,"_ he thought as he crossed the sand to the half open screen door. Two dogs of indeterminate heritage ambled up, tails wagging. They did a perfunctory sniff and immediately sprawled out in the cool sand on either side of the porch.

"Some watch dogs you are," Foster said, knocking on the door jamb. "Dad? You here?" he called out as he walked into the house. It was a good sign that the place was picked up. He called out again, "Dad, where are you?"

Faintly, from the direction of the lanai, he heard, "Back here, son."

Making his way through the house, Foster let himself out on the porch. "Hey, Dad. How ya doin'?" he asked, patting the middle-aged man on the shoulder before settling into a patio chair. "You look good."

"I am good...well, I was until I got that call from Crawford. He won't take no for an answer."

"He's pretty persistent," Foster said.

"I guess that's why you're here...to convince me."

"Look, Dad...we need you on this Task Force..."

"No, you don't. I quit the Bureau and it has gotten along just fine without me for almost 20 years. Crawford doesn't need to drag an old ghost like me out of the attic."

Foster looked at the man who'd been there after his own father had died, who'd loved him like his own and stood by him even when he was hanging by a thread himself. He was right, the Bureau didn't need him but Crawford was right, too...he needed the Bureau, or at least the work. "Dad, please...you need to do something. You're dying down here. I worry about you."

Their eyes met and Foster knew he'd hit a nerve.

"I know you've put your gift or whatever you call it in cold storage – and that's good because it was eating you up. Even without it you're one of the finest profilers the Bureau ever had. It would do you good to use some of your skills again…"

"And I should share my great knowledge with the next generation…" he said, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, Dad, you should. But don't do it for them…or Crawford…not even me. Do it for yourself. You need something to keep you going. If you don't you're going to melt back into the earth like this house. In a couple of years there'll be no evidence there was anything here at all."

As much as he hated to admit it, Willy was correct. There was nothing for him here anymore except memories that were fading every day, leaving him more empty and sad, and in danger of crawling back in the bottle. "All right, son. You tell Crawford I'll be there."

The young man nodded and smiled, "Good." Wanting to capitalize on this easy victory, he said, "Come on, I'll help you pack."

**Tuesday, January 2, 2007 – 8:45 am ­– Dulles, VA

* * *

**

Grissom and Sara stood at Baggage Claim waiting for their luggage to appear. Agent Rick Culpepper shifted from foot to foot next to them, impatient to get moving. They'd offered to rent a car and make their way to Quantico on their own, but Culpepper refused saying he needed to see to their comfort personally. Heavy emphasis on the 'personally' amused Grissom as he surmised, correctly it turned out, that Culpepper had been given this assignment as some sort of payback. _"Good," _he thought happily, _"I owe you from the last time we met, Special Agent Culpepper." _

"So, CSI Sidle," Culpepper started, apparently attempting to make conversation, "I'm pleased to see you again."

"Thank you," Sara said, purposely vague. "Oh, I see our bags."

It was then that Culpepper put it together… Grissom's over-protective attitude during the decoy operation on the Strip Strangler case… exchanged looks…subtle touches as they'd waited for their luggage… _"Assistant, my ass,"_ he thought, annoyed that the older man had managed to bring along his mistress at government expense. _"This is just getting better and better." _

Grissom turned, luggage in hand, and was startled at the naked animosity in Culpepper's eyes. It flashed there, just for a second, before he covered it with his Agent Face as he turned abruptly to lead them out of the airport. Following along in his wake, he glanced at Sara; her expression told him she'd seen it, too. Curious.

The ride to Quantico was silent.

**Tuesday, January 2, 2007 – 11:30 am ­– Quantico

* * *

**

Check-in at the Academy capped a rotten day for Rick Culpepper. The Las Vegas CSIs got through security with no trouble – he'd idly hoped some snag would prevent one or the other of them being admitted to the compound. His luck seemed to turn when the only rooms available at the dorm were at opposite ends of the building and on different floors to boot; he enjoyed the criminalists' disappointment until Jack Crawford turned up and shuffled some cadets around to give Sidle and Grissom adjacent rooms. They made polite protests about the inconvenience, but Culpepper noted the exchange of relieved looks once the issue was resolved.

It was odd for the Director to personally greet guests – Culpepper had to hide his annoyance at the status this conferred. Then he caught Crawford watching Grissom. Oh, he was subtle about it, but Culpepper, who knew the Director well, had never seen the old man so rattled. Making his own surreptitious observations of the middle aged entomologist, he saw nothing that would cause such a reaction.

He hated being out of the loop and he really hated the way the wind was blowing on this Task Force.

Freed from onerous duty to the Las Vegas CSIs, he got in his car and drove too fast to Vermont Avenue in Northwest DC, where he picked up a leggy brunette and for 500, spent the afternoon fucking her senseless.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 2 to follow shortly_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** I am totally indebted to **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30**, and **scifijoan** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Tuesday, January 2, 2007 – 1:00 pm – Quantico**_

* * *

_

Grissom looked around the FBI Training Academy dorm room and sighed. Two desks, chairs, bookcases, dressers, twin beds...perhaps this wouldn't be quite the intimate vacation he'd imagined. _"Damn. I knew this was a bad idea."_

He tossed his suitcase on the right-hand bed. As he made trips to the dresser, closet and bathroom to put away the things he would need for this month away from Las Vegas, he wondered again who'd requested him for this Task Force. Certainly not Culpepper. That one practically hissed at them in the airport. It wasn't Crawford, either. Their meeting today had been odd...he'd caught the man staring at him in a way that set his alarm bells ringing.

Something was going on but there wasn't enough data to figure it out. Damn.

He was interrupted by a knock at his door, which opened to reveal a grinning Sara. "Not exactly the Hilton, huh?" she laughed as she walked in to inspect Grissom's room. Eying the twin beds she dropped the duffel she was carrying and plopped down on the left-hand one, bouncing a bit to test the springs. "Charming..._I_ have bunk beds," she said brightly.

Grissom sat down next to her with an annoyed sigh, "Great...welcome to Club Fed."

Laying her head on Grissom's shoulder, Sara said, "You're not eager to explore the wonders of twin beds? We can use my room instead, but I get to be on top."

He looped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, chuckling. "You'll get no argument from me." Caressing her back and kissing the top of her head, he said, "We can always stay at a hotel. I saw several in town on our way here, but I kind of hate to do that..."

"I guess it pays to plan ahead, then," Sara said, standing. "Hand me that duffel bag."

Eyebrow quirked in curiosity, Grissom leaned down, picking up the sack. "You planned ahead?"

"Sure...I don't know how many dorms you've stayed in, but they don't generally include high end sheets or mirrors on the ceiling," Sara said as she opened the bag and handed Grissom the contents: several large plastic bags, each one no more than an inch thick.

He stood holding the bags looking confused. "You have mirrors for the ceiling in here?" he said, looking up with a grin.

"No, of course not." Grabbing one of the bags, she slid open the plastic zipper – the contents immediately expanded to several times its former size. Grissom recognized the foam mattress topper from home. "Open that one...sheets and pillowcases." He did as directed, creamy soft thousand thread count sheets pooled into his hands. The other bag held their bed pillows and a silk covered down blanket.

"I knew we'd be lucky to have a big enough bed, so I thought we could make two standard dorm-room twins into a full."

As they worked pushing both beds together in the center of the room, Grissom asked, "What's to keep them from separating at an...inopportune moment?"

Sara smiled. "Check the duffel."

Grissom roared with laughter as he held up a new roll of duct tape.

**Tuesday, January 2, 2007 – 2:15 pm – Quantico  
****

* * *

**

Jack Crawford gazed across his desk at Agent William Foster. "Graham's here?"

Foster nodded, "Yeah. Got in this morning. He didn't want to stay in the compound, so I got him a room at the Days Inn in Aquia. It's a bit of a drive but he's not eager to be any closer."

Crawford made a noise in his throat. "He didn't stop by...not that I expected him to."

"Oh, he doesn't want to see you, Jack. In fact, he asked me several times how involved you were going to be in this Task Force. I told him 'not very.'"

Crawford pulled out a desk drawer and propped his feet on it. "That's OK. As long as he's here, I'll try to steer clear. By the way, Gil Grissom and his assistant arrived today."

"Good...good. What's he like?" Foster asked absently.

Crawford eyed the younger man curiously, "I only spoke to him for a few minutes...hard to tell much." He paused, wondering how to approach this. Finally he said, "Tell me again why you wanted Grissom on this Task Force."

Foster, already stressed from the day, started to protest.

"Humor me, William...take me through the steps that brought you to choosing Grissom."

Thinking back, Foster started ticking off the steps in his thought process. "OK...you and I cooked up this Task Force idea to get Dad back on his feet. I knew he would refuse, so I researched some of his cases, hoping to find a name he might recognize...that he might want to reconnect with. It was a long shot, but it was better than the nothing I had.

"His first big case, Garrett Jacob Hobbs, was in 1980. They had experts from all over the country consulting on that – well, you remember...you were there. I was going down the list of consultants when one name jumped out at me: Gil Grissom.

"Dad has mentioned him several times over the years, saying how much he admired Grissom's work particularly since he's an entomologist as well as a criminalist. Dad wrote that monograph about determining time of death by insect activity, right? It was the standard until it was supplanted by Mant and Nuorteva... Anyway, I thought this might be a way to get him back into the field. Linear regressions of insect activity are a lot easier to deal with than running around in the mind of a killer."

"And that was it?" Crawford asked.

Foster tilted his head, questioning. "Yeah, why?"

Crawford took his feet off the drawer and leaned across his desk toward Foster. "Have you seen Dr. Grissom?...pictures?...anything?"

Thinking a moment, Foster said, "Yeah, I suppose so...I think there was one of those ID photos somewhere in the stuff I looked at. Why?"

Crawford slid an 8x10 photograph across the desk. Foster picked it up, glanced at it and tossed it back on the blotter. "I know what Dad looks like, Jack."

When Crawford didn't say anything, Foster blinked a few times then picked up the picture again.

Crawford said quietly, "That's not a picture of your dad, William."

**Tuesday, January 2, 2007 – 2:30 pm – Fredericksburg, VA****

* * *

**

The area around Fredericksburg, Virginia is dotted with freshly sprouted McMansion developments dropped like stones in the middle of nowhere. A small gray bird perches on top of a dead tree at the verge of one of the few remaining meadows. Its song is unusual. After a few trills, it descends into a rasping ak...ak...ak, sounding remarkably like the buzzing of summer locusts – except this is winter and most of the insects are dead.

Leaping suddenly into flight, the robin-sized bird swoops down into the grass, rising almost immediately with a mouse in its claws. Flying straight across the field, it lands in a pyracantha bush, red with berries and bristling with thorns. Instead of eating its kill, the bird impales it on a thorn and flies back to its watch in the dead tree.

While the mouse writhes in its death throes, insects begin to investigate hopefully. Next to the pyracantha, impaled on a sharpened stake of rebar jammed into the ground, something else writhes in its death throes: a young dark-haired woman with long lovely legs.

After awhile, both victims are still and the only sound is that of a bird singing, followed by a throaty buzz that isn't locusts in summer.

**Tuesday, January 2, 2007 – 3:00 pm – Aquia, VA  
****

* * *

**

The Days Inn in Aquia, Virginia is not fancy. It is, at best, serviceable.

Will Graham flipped through the channels on the TV, hoping to find something that would hold his interest. _"200 fucking channels and nothing to watch,"_ he thought as he sat up on the side of the bed. He looked over at the makeshift bar on the dresser for the hundredth time since he'd checked in. Forcing himself to think about anything other than that bottle, he thought of home and the dogs, about how Willy had settled into his career at the FBI, and about Molly…no, he couldn't think about Molly yet.

Reluctantly he got up and stood in front of the fifth of Jim Beam. The seal was unbroken. Ice in the bucket next to it was half melted, the motel-supplied glasses were still sealed in plastic. He glanced at his reflection in the bureau mirror. What he saw made him turn around and pick up the phone.

Dialing from memory he waited for his party to answer. He kept glancing at the bottle on the dresser until someone picked up.

"Willy, it's Dad. You free for dinner? Good. I'll see you in about an hour."

He'd just put on his coat when there was a soft knock on the door: the maid with extra towels. Graham stood waiting for her to come out of the bathroom, glancing at himself in the mirror, then at the bottle on the dresser. Taking a deep breath he grabbed the bottle and pressed it into the surprised woman's hands as she reentered the room.

He barely heard her calling thank yous after him as he walked quickly through the door and down the stairs to his rental car. His breathing didn't slow until he pulled out of the parking lot.

**Tuesday, January 2, 2007 – 3:45 pm – Fredericksburg, VA****

* * *

**

Taylor Aldridge loved the woods near his house. They'd only just moved into Sky Landing over Thanksgiving, a damned strange time of year to move but that's just the way it had worked out for him and Sharon. More luxury townhomes were slated to be built on this land within the year so he took himself out for a stroll whenever he could.

The dogs loved to run, so he let them off lead to scare up whatever they could in the long grass. Cold weather was like a tonic for his Jack Russell terriers, Rocky and Daisy – so different than the sweltering Florida heat they'd grown up with. Just watching them play in the open lifted his heart. He wondered what they would do in their first snowfall.

Aldridge noticed the sun flirting with the treetops; he was going to lose the light soon. Better round up the dogs and get back. Sharon might be home and they could curl up in front of their gas fireplace. _"Ah, the luxuries of a place that has actual seasons,"_ he thought as he called the dogs.

Jacks are not known for obedience but his were taking rather long to come so he whistled and called again. Nothing. Annoyed, he took off in the direction he'd seen them racing a few minutes before. Daisy suddenly burst out of the brush and leaned her full weight against his legs, whining. Concerned, he picked her up and called for Rocky again as he pushed into the undergrowth at the edge of the trees.

The dog was sitting next to something half hidden under a pyracantha bush. What he saw when bent for a closer look kept him out of the woods for years.

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 3 to follow shortly**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30,** and **scifijoan** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

_

* * *

_

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 2:15 am – Quantico  
****

* * *

**

Grissom was in that twilight state between drowsing and actual sleep, thinking about duct tape and what a lucky bastard he was when a loud knock put him on full alert. Sara, who'd been soundly asleep, sat up confused at her surroundings.

"What is it?" she said muzzily, looking around.

"Someone is at the door, honey. I'll get it," he said quietly. Looking at the clock, he wondered who might want them at two in the morning. As he mentally went down the list he felt a familiar lurch in his belly. _"God, I hope Mom is OK."_

Pulling on a pair of sweat pants he said loudly, "Just a minute, please," before making his way to the door. A glance through the peephole revealed Agent Culpepper standing there in foul weather gear. "Jesus, what does _he_ want?" he said under his breath as another loud knock rattled the door.

"Dr. Grissom. Wake up please, Dr. Grissom."

Grissom opened the door a few inches. "Agent Culpepper. Is there an emergency?"

"The Director has called an emergency meeting of the Task Force. Dress as warmly as you can – we'll provide you with additional gear. We're assembling in the lobby," he said, trying to see into the room, not bothering to hide it. "I got no answer at CSI Sidle's room. Perhaps you can let her know she's needed?"

"Yes…yes, of course," he said to Culpepper's back as the man swung around and walked quickly down the hall. Grissom called after him, "What's the emergency?"

His only response was a very sour look.

Asshole.

"What is it, Gil?" Sara asked from the bed, finally awake.

Closing the door quietly, he paused to look at her: sleep tousled and inviting. He sighed, "Director Crawford has called an emergency meeting of the Task Force. That was Culpepper…he was dressed for bad weather, sporting a mood to match. He wouldn't say what it was about."

"I heard that bit about getting no answer at my room…" she grinned.

He laughed. "You are an unusually sound sleeper, Miss Sidle," he said as he started pulling through drawers for warm clothing.

Sara gathered up her discarded jeans and top from the night before, then pulled on one of his shirts. Walking up behind him, pressing her breasts into his bare back, she sighed, "I guess we're going outside…I'll go next door and get dressed."

Grissom turned for a quick hug. "Better do up those buttons before you hit the hall," he smiled, stealing a kiss.

Fifteen minutes later they entered the lobby to see Crawford and Culpepper seated at a conversation area talking to several people they didn't know. The Director gestured them over. They had to walk around a large pile of gear: parkas, boots, and field kits.

"Dr. Grissom, Miss Sidle…sorry to get you out of bed…join us over here if you will. Please, sit…sit. I received a call from the Spotsylvania County Sheriff's Office about an hour ago. A body was discovered on the outskirts of Fredericksburg this evening. It's a serial…we've been asked to assist the local authorities. Since you're all here, I'm going to use the Task Force as part of our investigative team," he said looking around at the group. "Let me make a few introductions before I talk about the case."

"Most of you know Agent Rick Culpepper. He's Senior Profiler here and will be consulting on the Task Force as duty permits," Crawford said.

Culpepper looked around the group, nodding, looking exactly like the arrogant stuffed shirt he was. Grissom noted more than one person covered an inward groan, guessing correctly that Culpepper had demonstrated his charm on others in the group.

"You probably don't know Agent William Foster," he said, indicating the tall, blond man in his mid-thirties who was seated next to him. "He's what we call a legacy…followed his dad into service and like his dad, making quite a name for himself in Profiling."

Foster smiled and nodded, looking faintly embarrassed. He'd been trying not stare at Grissom since the man had joined them, unsuccessfully it seemed. Their eyes met for several seconds and when the moment passed, Grissom wondered what on earth the man been staring at. Glancing quickly at Sara, she quirked an eyebrow indicating that she'd seen the exchange as well. Odd.

Crawford noted Foster's awkward situation. "William, your dad is already at the scene, correct?"

"Uh…yes…I live a few minutes from there…I dropped him off before coming here."

"Good. He'll have preserved the scene from the locals, though they do have some experience in this area," Crawford said.

The only other woman in the group spoke up. "I'm surprised the locals turned it over if they've dealt with a serial before."

"That's true, Miranda, but the Lisk-Silva cases were special – they involved the abduction and murder of three local children and remained confined to the county. Based on what we know of this case, we think the perpetrator is responsible for a string of murders in several states starting with the first in Minnesota in 1997." Crawford turned to take in the group. "May I introduce Miranda Robinson, Atlanta PD. She is a detective in their Violent Crimes Unit."

Looking at each member of the group with a slight smile and a nod, Robinson, a forty-ish black woman with close cropped hair and a no nonsense demeanor, spoke again, "Did you help with the previous cases?"

Culpepper answered, "We were called in when the Lisk sisters were taken on the same day…five months after the first victim, Sofia Silva, was abducted. I found the Sheriff eager for help but ultimately uncooperative."

Virtually every person in the group coughed at that. He didn't seem to notice, leaving Sara to wonder just how thick Culpepper could be. The man must have some serious juice somewhere to have this kind of rep and still be allowed in the field. Smiling to herself, she thought, _"Even Ecklie would yank someone this abrasive…how does he get anything done?"_

Crawford jumped in, "Sheriff Porter Ames called me personally to ask for our help. He's a good man and for a small county they have a good team of investigators, but this is out of their league. In fact, this is almost out of our league…"

"What makes you say that?" said the older man seated next to Miranda Robinson.

Crawford hesitated then said, "Folks, this is Dr. Mason Robichaud, Chief Medical Examiner for the state of Louisiana."

Robichaud said, "And...?"

Looking around the group then at the floor and then back at the assortment of now puzzled faces, Crawford said, "And...last, but not least, I want to introduce Dr. Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle, CSIs from the Las Vegas Crime Lab.

Sara and Grissom nodded to the group, then looked back at Crawford.

Miranda Robinson said, "And...?"

Crawford took a deep breath and scratched his head. "And what, Miranda?" he said.

"You can't drop a statement like that on us and then pretend you never said it, Jack. What did you mean, 'almost out of our league?'" she shot back.

He studied the ceiling for a moment and said, finally, "We haven't seen anything quite like this since Hannibal Lecter."

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 2:15 am – Crime Scene  
****

* * *

**

Crime scene tape was strung from bush to bush at the verge of a stand of trees. Will Graham crunched through a thin layer of snow as he headed toward the scene. Reluctant as he was to be here, he wanted to see Jack Crawford less; Willy had dropped him here when the emergency Task Force meeting was called.

The area was alive with people outside the tape: deputies and crime scene investigators, a photographer – even a few plainclothes police looking cold and out of place. Bright lights had been set up to shine on the scene itself which threw the area surrounding into deeper darkness. This seemed obscene to Graham who thought of the body as a kind of black hole radiating shadow…it was wrong that it should be glowing there, framed by new fallen snow.

A young deputy, still pale faced with shock, stopped Graham well outside the tape. "Excuse me, sir, this is a crime scene. You can't be here."

Fishing out his temporary ID and presenting it, he said, "I'm Will Graham with the FBI. You're expecting me?"

The young man looked puzzled, "I was told there would be several people."

Graham took back the ID card and clipped it to his coat, "Oh, there will be. I was in the area…the rest are coming from Quantico. They'll be here within the hour."

"Very good, sir. You'll want to talk with Sheriff Ames. That's him, standing next to the photographer," he said waving him on.

The Sheriff of Spotsylvania County, Virginia was 57, very tall – 6'5" at least – and built like a truck. Catching Graham's approach under the yellow barrier out of the corner of his eye, he turned to speak. "You FBI?"

Graham extended his hand and said, "Yes, I'm Will Graham," finally dropping it when Ames made no move to shake it.

"Crawford said he was sending a team."

"They're coming from Quantico. I was in the area and came ahead."

The Sheriff looked over Graham's head, as if he expected the team to materialize on the other side of the crime scene tape. He scrubbed his face with his hands. "I've been a cop for 30 years. I thought I'd seen everything, but I've never seen anything like this…" he said more to himself than to Graham.

The night was becoming more and more surreal, Graham mused as he studied the shaken man in front of him. "Bad, huh?" he said, hoping to reel him in and get some useful information.

"Mr. Graham, there are no words to describe how bad this is."

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 3:15 am – Quantico  
****

* * *

**

The Task Force trooped out the front entrance of the FBI Academy to stand under the portico, awaiting transport to the scene. Everyone was thankful Agent Culpepper had accompanied Director Crawford to fetch a van. They used the time to adjust new foul weather gear and get to know one another.

"I had no idea I'd be tramping in the snow when I accepted Jack Crawford's invitation to this Task Force," said Dr. Robichaud. "We don't do much cold weather recovery in Louisiana."

Miranda Robinson looked around the group. "What I want to know is, what's up with this Task Force? Not that you all aren't great at what you do, but this is as odd a grouping of criminalists as I've ever seen. Not one of you is a profiler except Culpepper; I'm not sure I want to spend a month cheek to cheek with him."

Grissom spoke up. "There _is_ something peculiar about this whole business but I can't figure out what it is. I'm an entomologist, yet I was asked for by name. How about you, Dr. Robichaud?"

The older man looked thoughtful for a moment. "I get invitations to a lot of seminars and such, but I usually don't pay much attention. My assistant delegates these things amongst my staff. She received a call from Jack Crawford that the invitation to the Task Force was for me specifically and no one else. That made me curious."

Everyone in the group was equally puzzled except Agent Foster, who had edged away from the group and was making a show of watching for their transportation. As one the group turned to stare at him. Feeling the weight of their eyes on his neck, he turned slowly to face them.

Robinson said, "Care to shed any light on this, Agent Foster?"

The van pulled up under the portico at that moment. Crawford hopped out, opening the passenger doors and rear gate. Relieved, Foster said quickly, "Let me help you all get this gear stowed in the back."

Not bothering to get down from his position as shotgun, Culpepper said, "All right, people. Let's not take all night."

Sara and Grissom shared a look with Miranda Robinson, who said quietly, "I'd say a month with Prince Charming will be about 30 days too long unless they can come up with an explanation as to why we're here."

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 4 to follow shortly**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30** and **scifijoan** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

I have been sticking to a Friday morning posting schedule, but I've put this chapter up early. I'll be on a train all day Friday headed to Providence, RI, to see WP in _A Dublin Carol_. Happy Birthday to ME! _WOOT!_

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 4:30 am – Crime Scene – Fredericksburg, VA  
****

* * *

**

The ride to Fredericksburg was all monologue. Agent Culpepper held forth on various topics including, thankfully, a few details about the crime.

"A local resident discovered the body in a field near his home about four o'clock this afternoon. He immediately called 911, who sent a sheriff's deputy to investigate. The deputy took one look and alerted Sheriff Ames, who called us in. We have a special agent on site preserving the scene.

"The body was found partially hidden under a bush. The victim is a white female, about 30 years old. She was found naked and impaled on a length of rebar. Other things have been done to the body but until we get a coroner's opinion, we can only say she was tortured before she was killed."

"Who is doing the autopsy, Agent Culpepper?" asked Dr. Robichaud.

"It's our choice. Spotsylvania County has facilities and will do it if we decide that's the best course. We can have the body transported to DC and you can do the autopsy yourself, or observe if you wish, Robichaud," responded Culpepper. Even Crawford winced at his agent's disrespect.

"Dr. Robichaud, we are fortunate to have you with us. After we view the scene, perhaps you can make a recommendation?" the Director said quickly.

Eying Crawford speculatively, he said, "Oh, you may be sure of that."

Red and blue flashing lights reflected off every surface in the Sky Landing development: the usual assortment of cars and minivans in addition to Virginia State Police cars, Spotsylvania County Sheriff's Department vehicles, and at least three local news vans. Residents were being kept away from a corridor leading to the crime scene, so they congregated on porches and around the media people doing stand-ups in the parking lot.

Sheriff Ames stood in the center of a cleared area waiting for them. He motioned for Crawford to stop.

"Thanks for coming, Jack," he said, pointedly ignoring Rick Culpepper who nodded a greeting from the passenger seat. Instead, Ames looked over Crawford's shoulder, straining to see the faces in the back of the van. "This your Task Force?"

"Glad to help out, Porter…and yes, this is our Task Force. Let me get this thing parked, then I'll handle introductions."

"Sure thing. Pull in over there," he said and turned to speak to an approaching deputy. "Get those news people back up onto the road. I want no film of these people or of the body when we remove it."

The deputy looked worried, "They won't move, sir. Claim this is public property."

"Jesus, deliver me from reporters who don't know their ass from first base," Ames said under his breath. "Jack, Deputy Hanson will take you up to the scene. Seems I'm going to have to educate a few assholes about what constitutes public property."

Looking a lot like an enraged bull, Ames barreled off in the direction of the media trucks.

Deputy Hanson walked over to the Task Force as they inspected kits handed to them out of the back of the van. "This way, please."

The corridor marked out with crime scene tape was narrow, forcing the group to walk single file. "Your agent made us cordon off this area in and out of the scene so as not to disturb potential evidence. We got here before the snow started and scanned the ground pretty thoroughly, but he insisted. You can see that the only footprints left now are inside the tape."

"We appreciate your help, Deputy Hanson," Crawford said as they approached the actual scene. It was still lit up like a Christmas window, the pyracantha bush beautiful, dusted with snow and loaded with red berries in stark contrast to the pale body partially concealed beneath it. Peering into the shadows, he looked around at Agent Foster, "Do you see your dad, William?"

"No, I don't," he said.

"I'm over here, Jack," said a hooded figure partially obscured by darkness.

"Hello, Will…uh…thanks for preserving the scene until we could get here," Crawford half mumbled, extending his hand. The man kept his hands firmly buried in the pockets of his parka as he approached. "People, this is Will Graham…the final member of our Task Force."

The team had formed a half circle around Crawford during this exchange, looking toward the man emerging from the shadows. He took his hands out of his pockets and removed his gloves, then shoved back the hood of his coat.

Eight mouths dropped open in unison and six sets of eyes bounced between Will Graham and Gil Grissom. The resemblance was startling.

Grissom himself experienced a sort of twinning in time. He could hear the voice of Paul Millander faintly in his head:

_Millander, in his facade as Mulberry, Nevada traffic court judge Douglas Mason, had said, "You've heard of the doppelganger syndrome?"_

"_That every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world?" he'd replied with contempt._

_Coyly, Millander had studied him there in that holding cell, "Do you believe in it?"_

"_Never been proved," he'd said with absolute certainty._

He locked eyes with Graham, trying to process what he'd been certain was a scientific impossibility. Until now.

xxx

Porter Ames was in a mood to bite someone's head off. He'd just gone off on a few reporters which was satisfying but not enough to improve his temper. _"Jesus, I moved here to get away from shit like this,"_ he thought, trudging over the parking lot and back up to the scene.

Ames had become Sheriff of Spotsylvania County in the spring of 1996, a few months before the Lisk-Silva murders. He hadn't had any child abduction/murder cases in his former life as head of detectives in St. Paul, Minnesota, thank God, but he'd had his fill of every other kind of atrocity…that was what prompted his move to Virginia. It had been golden for those few months. The country was beautiful here, the people friendly and gracious. Looking into the eyes of those grieving parents had taken the bloom off, but it was quiet after that.

Quiet until 9/11 when he learned no one was safe anywhere. Then the DC Snipers had gotten a man at a gas station off I-95 in October, 2002 _not five miles from his house_…if he'd been closer to retirement he'd have packed Maggie up in the RV and just taken off. As it was, he was biding his time until January 1, 2012. After that, who knows, but wherever they went and whatever he did, law enforcement would be far behind.

"_Hope the FBI prima donnas know what the fuck they're doing,"_ he mumbled to himself as he approached the group. "OK people, what have we got?"

His words dropped like rocks into the surreal moment spinning out between Grissom and Graham.

xxx

Sara was the first to recover from the shock of seeing Grissom's twin in Will Graham. She stepped forward. "Mr. Graham, it's an honor to meet you. I've studied your work."

Graham took her in absently as he glanced at the other faces in the group, "Thank you, Miss…?"

"Sidle…Sara Sidle, from the Las Vegas Crime Lab." Turning to Grissom, she put her hand on his shoulder, "And this is Gil Grissom, also of Las Vegas."

"Miss Sidle. Pleased to meet you...and you, Dr. Grissom. It's a pleas..." he said half smiling as he reached for Grissom's extended hand.

The instant they touched, both looked suddenly at their clasped hands, eyebrows rising.

Sara's eyes widened as the energy rolling off them pulsed through her.

Graham cleared his throat. "It's a pleassure to meet you, Dr. Grissom. Your paper..._Adjusting Time of Death Calculations When Oviposition Is Delayed..._insightful. Victim was wrapped tightly in a blanket...the adjustments resulted in a conviction, I believe?"

Grissom released Will's hand, coloring slightly. "Thank you...we did get a conviction in that case. I've read a number of your mongraphs...and shared them with my staff. Excellent teaching tools."

The men continued to study one another until Rick Culpepper sighed loudly, breaking the moment.

Graham turned to the rest of the team, "Seems I know the rest of you pretty well, however…Miranda…Mason…good to see you again." He wasn't looking at his old friends, though, he was looking from Foster to Crawford, waiting for one of them to explain what the Hell was going on.

In those few moments Sheriff Ames sized up the scene, looked at his watch and decided whatever was happening was going to have to take a back seat to his crime scene. "We have a victim waiting for your expert attention, folks. It'll be dawn soon. I can keep reporters out on the ground but helicopters will be all over this field once the sun is up. Let's concentrate on our Jane Doe so we can get her out of here."

Culpepper jumped in, annoyed to have been left out of the weird little tableau with the rest of the team, "That's right, people. Let's remember why we're here."

Crawford and Graham exchanged one more look before the group broke up, giving full attention on their work.

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 10:00 am – Fredericksburg, VA****

* * *

**

The parking lot at Sky Landing was busy with local law enforcement personnel packing up and getting ready to scatter back to their various jurisdictions. A very cold and tired Task Force congregated around the FBI van. They'd all seen enough ugliness in their work to populate a lifetime of nightmares, but this…they could barely look at one another for fear of what they would see reflected in each other's eyes.

Sheriff Ames approached with a big thermos and a stack of cups. "I know you all are cold. How about some coffee?"

Grateful to have something else to concentrate on, they busied themselves with the process of receiving the steaming cups and doctoring them with the little packets Ames pulled from his pockets.

"I want to thank you all for coming out here…for your help. We're not equipped to handle anything like this," he said somberly. "I understand that Dr. Robichaud accompanied Crawford and the body to FBI headquarters…"

Culpepper stepped forward, taking the thermos from the Sheriff's hands and pouring himself the last cup of coffee. "That's correct."

Ames waited for Culpepper to say more. Several seconds passed. "And…?"

Agent Culpepper thrust the thermos back into the startled Sheriff's hands, "Thanks for the coffee, Ames. Very thoughtful of you," he said before turning abruptly to speak to the group. "We are going to process the evidence from this scene downtown. It'll be several hours at least before we have even preliminary results. I've scheduled a meeting at Quantico at 1300 for us to discuss this case and the priors. Foster, can you drive the group back to the compound? I'm going to headquarters to supervise," he said, motioning to an unmarked that quickly pulled up beside the group. Culpepper got in the passenger side and was gone before anyone could react to his departure.

Ames watched the car recede up the access road and turn north onto Route 1. "What a prick," he said, turning back to the group.

Agent Foster stepped out of the group, "Sheriff Ames…I know you're concerned about turning your case over to the Bureau. Here's my card. All my numbers are there, including my home number. Please, call me with any concerns you have."

"Thank you," Ames said looking down at the card in his hand then back at Foster. "You tell Jack Crawford I'll be expecting a call from him before noon." He looked at the rest of the group and tipped his hat, "Ladies…gentlemen, thanks again for your assistance." He turned and stalked off to a car waiting by the road which pulled away as soon as he was inside.

Miranda Robinson said quietly, "So much for the cock and bull…"

Just like that, the tension in the group evaporated. Foster unlocked the van and opened the doors so they could get out of the cold. "Look, I know you all are running on not enough sleep and too much coffee. There's a diner near here…we can grab some breakfast and unwind a little before we go back to Quantico. Interested?"

General acclamation followed. Looking a little like identical copies of Stan Laurel, Graham and Grissom nodded in unison with the exact same tilt of the head, focusing the group's attention back on their unexpected likeness for the first time since they'd met. The two men shrugged and smiled at each other as they climbed into the van.

Catching his son's eye, Graham got into the front passenger seat and said, "We need to talk."

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 5 to follow shortly**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30** and **scifijoan** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**WARNING:** This chapter contains a graphic description of wounds suffered by the murder victim.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 10:15 am – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

Mason Robichaud looked with pity at the body before him. At 70 he'd been a coroner for almost 40 years now; he was proud of the fact that he still felt for the people who came under his care. It didn't make for pleasant dreams but his soul was satisfied, so he figured he was ahead of the game.

What was left of the young woman before him was hard even for him to take. Vital response in the tissue around the rebar on which she'd been impaled indicated she'd been alive for that. Alive and conscious: her hands were covered with abrasions and rust scales from the rusting iron rod. Cause of death was exsanguination.

He'd seen a lot in his career, but never torture like this. There was no other way to classify it. The woman's tongue had been removed, the wound cauterized to prevent bleeding. There was evidence of a tracheostomy, which would indicate the killer had wanted his victim to be able to breathe…for awhile, anyway. Both eyes had been removed. The eyelids had been cut away beforehand, for what purpose Robichaud did not want to contemplate… _"To force her to watch what?"_ he wondered and quickly focused his attention elsewhere. The toes on both feet had been clipped off pre-mortem: those wounds were cauterized as well. The bottoms of both feet had second and third degree burns.

Ligature marks on the ankles and wrists indicated she'd been restrained. The patterns looked a lot like those left by commercial restraints, leather perhaps.

Robichaud had already sent a rape kit for processing. There were so many stab wounds around the genitalia it was difficult to tell exactly what had occurred there, but all of it looked pre-mortem to him.

As disturbing as all this evidence of torture was, the most disturbing thing was what had been burned into the woman's flesh. On her abdomen, below her breasts and above her navel, the killer had used something…a soldering iron, maybe…to inscribe these words:

_Judgment for an evil thing  
can be many times delayed,  
but it is sure as death. _

_I have not forgotten. _

Crawford entered the autopsy room as Dr. Robichaud was dictating the last of his notes. "I'll have someone transcribe those for you, Robby, as soon as you're done."

"All finished," he said, pulling the tape from the small recorder and handing it to Crawford. "We've got talk-to-type transcription in Baton Rouge, Jack. You all are behind the times up here."

"Thanks," he said, putting the tape in his coat pocket. As Crawford turned to go, Robichaud put a hand on his arm. "Talk to me, Jack."

"I will, Robby, I promise," he said. "Once I get this case under control, I'll be back."

Watching him go, Robichaud stripped off his rubber gloves and said to no one, "Wishful thinkin' there..."

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 10:30 am – Route One Diner, Fredericksburg, VA  
****

* * *

**

"Shit…there's always a crowd here. Look, I'll drop you all off and park across the road," Foster said, seeing the full lot at the Route One Diner. The group piled out of the van and walked toward the restaurant. All except Graham.

"Go ahead, Dad. I'll be back in a minute."

"I need the exercise," Graham smiled.

Foster sighed in resignation, pulling back out on Route 1 and into the lot across the highway. When he found a spot he pulled in and turned off the engine, but made no move to get out of the van. He didn't have to look at Graham to know he was waiting for him to explain the incredibly remote chance that the Task Force was composed entirely of people from important cases in his past.

The moment stretched out uncomfortably. _"Jesus, how did I think I was going to get this past him?"_ he thought miserably. He looked at his dad who merely arched his eyebrows questioningly. Staring at his hands, he started to mumble something, but Graham interrupted him, voice flat, "Tell me one thing, Willy. Was this Crawford's idea or yours? I can guess why you'd do it but I really don't want to think about why Crawford would cook this up."

"It was mine, Dad. I went to Crawford with the idea and we set it up together."

Graham's only response was a grunt.

"I was worried…you know how you've been…"

Graham interrupted him again, realizing he'd made his point and wasn't angry anymore. "Okay, Willy, I get it," he said rubbing his son's shoulder. "I've been worried about me, too…I didn't know if I was going to make it back this time without Molly to…"

Startled by tears, Graham quickly cleared his throat and opened his door to get out of the van. The few seconds it took to round the back of the vehicle let him regain his composure. Willy met him on the other side looking a little sick. This had been just as hard on Willy as it had been on him…

He dredged up a smile from somewhere and put his arm around Willy's shoulder. "It's okay, son. I needed somebody to kick my ass."

They waited for traffic to clear before dashing across the highway.

xxx

The Route One Diner is like a million others all over the country: vaguely ominous on the outside, bright and inviting on the inside. Favorite of truckers, locals and law enforcement, the patrons were mostly men with a few elderly couples thrown in. Graham and Foster came through the double doors into a warm, noisy room that smelled of coffee and breakfast. The other members of the team were seated at a large booth in the back. Father and son were happy to find big, steaming mugs already at their places.

Miranda Robinson stopped in the middle of an animated story to greet Graham. "Well, look what the cat dragged in. It's good to see you, Will," she smiled.

Graham and Foster slid in on opposite sides of the booth. "You look well, Miranda. I heard you made detective after transferring out of the lab. Do you still like field work better than fingerprints?" said Graham, reaching out to grasp Miranda's hand. Holding his hand with both of hers, she said, "Oh, you know me. Always looking for excitement…speaking of which, I thought you retired. What are you doing on this Task Force?"

Nodding toward Foster, he said, "You'd have to ask my son…seems he and Crawford cooked up this little junket to keep my brain from turning to mush." Graham smiled to see Willy blush; still transparent even as an adult.

"I heard about Molly, Will. I'm so sorry," said Miranda quietly.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Thanks," he said quickly before turning to Grissom and changing the subject. "Dr. Grissom, I've followed your work for some time. I believe we worked together briefly in Minneapolis?'

"That's true. 1980…the Hobbs case. That was my first entomological consult," Grissom said, studying the other man. The resemblance between them was still a little shocking.

Graham tilted his head and observed Grissom's face carefully. "I wonder why no one noticed the resemblance then?"

When Grissom didn't offer an answer, Sara did. "I've seen pictures of you both from that period. Grissom's hair was much longer then and he wore a beard. In all the press reports about the Hobbs case, Mr. Graham, you were as you are now: clean shaven with sort hair." As she looked from man to man, the sense of time folding in on itself was unnerving: she reached for Grissom's hand under the table.

Setting down his fork and entwining his fingers with Sara's, he said, "And I was only peripherally involved in that case, Mr. Graham, doing linear regressions on the insects from the earliest victims. I'm not sure I was ever in the same room with you."

Graham smiled, flicking a glance between the Las Vegas CSIs. He nodded slightly. "That must be it…and call me Will."

"Most people call me Grissom."

Sara and Miranda and Foster reintroduced themselves, asking to be called by their first names as well. Light conversation might have continued were it not for the crime scene they'd just left. Once their breakfast orders arrived they ate in virtual silence. They found themselves glancing around at one another between bites of pancakes, sunny side eggs and toast.

Miranda couldn't stand it. "I just cannot get over how much you two look alike. Are you sure you're not related?" Her cheerful ribbing broke the spell that was hanging over the group.

The two men looked at each other and shrugged in unison. Everyone else dissolved in laughter.

Sara said, "Separated at birth?"

Looking back at one another, Graham and Grissom shook their heads, again in unison. They managed to keep straight faces for a few seconds before breaking up.

Foster elbowed Miranda Robinson who was sitting next to him. "I think we've created a two headed monster, ladies," he laughed. "Dad's birthday is November 15th, 1956…how about you Grissom?"

"Same year, but August 17th," he answered.

Graham said, "Well, I guess that settles it."

Grissom caught Graham's gaze mid-chuckle. Something passed between them then…an understanding…and somehow they knew the similarities between them went much deeper than appearance.

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 12:00 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

Clean up was the worst thing about completing a new Message. Not that he wasn't used to this sort of mess, but once The Messenger was properly prepared, all the fun went out it. The mere thought that his Mission could be fun made him look over his shoulder…he fully expected to see Papa there – dour and disapproving, stinking of gin – ready to thrash him for taking pleasure when he should have been concentrating on Righting the Wrong.

Well, the old man is dead, he reminded himself, and _'__the true way to render ourselves happy is to love our work and find in it our pleasure.'_ That made him laugh…Papa would not have approved…that quote wasn't from the Bible. Maybe he'd have liked the Helen Keller one better: _'True happiness is not attained through self-gratification, but through fidelity to a worthy purpose.'_ Papa certainly would have agreed with the Worthy Purpose part, and if a little self-gratification slipped in, well, he couldn't do anything about it now, could he?

When all surfaces and equipment were spotless he took one last look around the room to assure himself that he'd taken care of everything. Yes. Now he could relax a bit and move on to stage two: Revelation of The Message.

In some ways this was the hardest part…waiting for The Revelation. Sometimes The Messenger wasn't discovered right away and The Message was lost – that had happened in the beginning – but he'd gotten better with practice and The Messengers were discovered quickly now. All he had to do was watch the news and wait.

Closing the door to his workroom, he padded into the adjoining suite with its many video screens. A glance at the clock revealed it was just noon. Perhaps the waiting would be brief today.

Comfortably enthroned in the command center, he let the keyboard rest in his lap while he tapped out the commands that brought the media wall to life. One by one the local channels claimed a screen: NBC4, Fox5, ABC7, News Channel 8 and WUSA9. He didn't call up CNN or MSNBC just yet…they wouldn't have the story this early. All but NBC4 had noon news programming, but if anything bloody showed up, he knew that blow hard Pat Collins would be on live with a special report.

As one the screens filled with live feed from outside the Spotsylvania County Sheriff's Department. A huge bull of a man started to speak. His name was displayed across the bottom of each screen: Sheriff Porter Ames.

_"The body of a young woman was discovered late yesterday in the Sky Landing development in Fredericksburg. The identity of the victim is still unknown. We've called in the FBI to assist us in this investigation and are processing evidence collected at the scene. That's all we know at this time." _

Ames stepped away from the podium and went back inside the building without answering questions. Immediately, various talking heads appeared to tell what was known about the case: not much since officials had managed to shut down the scene right away. One screen was different…the Fox5 feed showed a reporter trying to speak to a man half hidden behind his front door.

_"Please, sir. Can you tell us what you saw when you discovered the body?" _

_"I'm sorry. I can't…it was horrible…please, leave me alone…" the man said, shutting the door. There was an audible click as the deadbolt was thrown. _

_"This is Brad Bell reporting live in Fredericksburg for Fox5." _

When all of the news broadcasts subsided into commercials or other stories, he shut them off. So far, so good. The Messenger had been discovered in good time for The Message to be delivered. Sometimes The Message was held back by law enforcement on the theory that it was an undisclosed detail only the perpetrator would know…but that Fox5 guy had already come up with the man who discovered the body…chances are he'd weasel The Message out of the man and report it breathlessly as an exclusive. Good…good.

Then he'd be one step closer to Judgment and Retribution. Oh, that would be a happy day.

A familiar tightness settled in his belly as he remembered his recent handiwork. No reason today couldn't have some pleasurable moments. Tapping out the commands that united the video wall into one giant screen, he started playback showing preparation of The Messenger and reached for the bottle of lubricant he kept near the command center. He pushed the keyboard out of the way and took great pleasure in his work once again.

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 12:00 pm – FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

Jack Crawford stared at the DNA Chief in disbelief. "What do you mean, 'compliance'? You're telling me the DNA recovered from the Sky Landing victim came from someone in the department? Who?"

Marion Addison held out the report tentatively. "Richard Culpepper."

Stunned, Crawford scanned the report, attempting to make sense of the numbers, but they were swimming before his eyes. "You're sure?"

"Yes, sir. I ran the results three times," she said. Pulling two other identical reports from the file in her hand, she gave them to Crawford.

"OK, let's back up a minute. Tell me about the samples…"

Addison pulled a chair up next to Crawford at the conference room table and sat. "Well, I analyzed the samples from the rape kit: oral, vaginal and anal swabs. There was semen present in the vaginal and anal samples, but not in the oral. Both of the positive samples are a match to Culpepper."

Crawford cursed under his breath, "Jesus Fucking Christ…"

They stared at each other for a full minute before Crawford spoke again, "How about the trace evidence? There was semen recovered from the interior of the victim's right thigh, right? And skin under the fingernails…same result?"

"I have not received the fingernail scrapings from Trace, but yes, the semen on the victim's thigh is a match to Culpepper as well."

Crawford reached across the table and grabbed the phone, then punched in an extension. "Burt? Crawford. I am sending Marion down to pick up the trace evidence from our Sky Landing victim…specifically, the fingernail scrapings. Yes, I know you haven't had time to analyze them properly, but we need to get the DNA out of that sample right away. As soon as we do, you'll get it right back. Yes, all the scrapings. She'll be down in two minutes." Hanging up, he turned to Marion Addison "Burt Wilson will have your samples waiting…get back to me as soon as you have results…and Marion, I don't have to tell you not to discuss these finding with anyone, do I?"

Addison stood and walked toward the door, turning as she opened it. "I'll hand carry the results in here as soon as I have them, and no, you don't have to tell me that, Jack."

Once she'd gone, Crawford rubbed his forehead, trying to sort out everything he needed to do now that one of his agents was a suspect in a serial crime. He picked up the phone again and dialed a number. "Ed? Jack Crawford. Go find Rick Culpepper and bring him to conference room 236 would you? No, I'm not kidding…no…no, cuffs…just get him up here. Thanks."

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 6 to follow shortly**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30** and **scifijoan** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 12:15 pm – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

Agent Culpepper was just locking up his workroom when Ed Blevins walked up behind him. "Agent Culpepper, Director Crawford needs to speak with you right away."

Startled, Culpepper turned, brow furrowing in confusion: why had Crawford had sent the Head of Security to fetch him? "I'll be down in a few minutes, Blevins…I have to follow up on some evidence."

"Director Crawford said I should bring you up to the conference room right away, Agent Culpepper," he said, angling his body to prevent Rick from shooting off down the hall.

"I _said_ I'd be down in a few min…" The remark died on his lips when he noticed Blevins' hand was resting on his weapon. He looked up into the older man's eyes. "Am I under arrest, Mr. Blevins?"

"Director Crawford needs to speak with you right away, sir." His tone was even but he did not remove his hand from his weapon.

"Well, let's go find out what's on Jack's mind."

xxx

Jack Crawford sat at the head of the conference room table directly across from the door. Ed Blevins escorted Rick Culpepper inside. "Do you need me to stay, Mr. Crawford?" he asked pointedly as he watched the Agent cross to a chair next to Crawford, ready to intervene with deadly force if necessary. Tension in the room was high.

Crawford studied Culpepper as he made his way down the table…the man was cool and contained…confident…as always. "That's not necessary, Ed. Thank you, and shut the doors behind you, please."

Blevins looked at Culpepper one last time before shifting his gaze to the Director. "I'll be right outside, Mr. Crawford."

Culpepper sighed and sat, placing his hands on the table in front of him, fingers entwined. Half smiling, he said, "That was some show, Jack. I think Blevins was disappointed he didn't get to shoot me."

Crawford spat, "You know what, Rick? You're good but you're not that good. More often than not you're a giant pain in my ass, so let's dispense with the attitude, shall we?"

The younger man's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

Picking the top folder off the stack to his right, Crawford opened the file and slid it front of Agent Culpepper. "Marion Addison just brought the DNA results up here from the Sky Landing victim."

Crawford's stare was so piercing; it took a moment before Culpepper dropped his gaze to the report. When he read his own name, he whispered, "Jesus…"

"It is a mark of my respect for you that I didn't start warrant proceedings as soon as I saw this," Crawford said sternly, "but make no mistake; you are a suspect, Rick. Your DNA showed up in three different places on the vic…and it wasn't casual transfer."

Sweating now, Culpepper picked up the other pages in the report: duplicates of the first. He looked at Culpepper questioningly.

" Marion ran the samples three times. There's no mistake. The DNA in the vaginal and anal swabs, as well as the sample recovered from the victim's thigh, are all a match to you."

"I don't know what to say, Jack."

Angry, Crawford stood and roared, "Say you didn't kill her, Rick!"

"I didn't kill her, Jack!"

Crawford fought to control himself, smoothed his tie and sat back down. Suddenly very tired, he said, "Tell me your movements for the last 24 hours."

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 1:45 pm – Quantico ****

* * *

**

The group made it back to the FBI Academy by noon. Agent Foster said, "We'll be in room 1516...it's this way," as he led the group through a maze of hallways. "We can use the time to write up our notes from the scene until Culpepper gets here."

Almost two hours later, Agent Culpepper still had not arrived. No one missed him particularly, but since he'd called the meeting and he was in charge of evidence collected at the Sky Landing scene, the group could not proceed without him.

Foster looked at his watch for the tenth time. Culpepper was many things: arrogant, condescending, abrupt, rude, thoughtless, and generally difficult to deal with, but he was on time for meetings. Standing awkwardly, William said, "I'll be right back. I'm going to see what's keeping Agent Culpepper..."

At that moment, the door to the conference room opened. Jack Crawford walked in with a stack of reports under one arm; setting the books on the table, he said, "There have been some unforeseen developments in the Sky Landing case. Agent Culpepper won't be joining us." Crawford pushed the reports toward Foster. "Pass these out, please? Thanks, William."

While the books were going around the table, Crawford said, "This report contains analyses to-date of the evidence we collected at Sky Landing. If you would, please turn to page 13...this is a preliminary DNA report..."

Six sets of eyes sorted through the data: oral swab...anal swab...sample collected from right thigh...

Miranda Robinson saw it first. "Oh, my God. The DNA came back a match to Rick Culpepper?"

"That's correct, Miranda. Three of the samples are a match to Agent Culpepper."

Everyone started to talk at once as this data registered. Crawford let them go for a minute. "People...people...we have a disturbing development in an already brutal series of murders. What we need to do is concentrate on what the evidence is telling us."

Mason Robichaud said quietly, "You mean, besides the fact that one of your agents may be the perpetrator?"

"Yes, Mason, besides that."

While Mason and Miranda were discussing the ramifications of this latest development, the thoughts of the other four members of the Task Force were elsewhere.

Grissom and Sara exchanged looks, then glanced at Graham who was ignoring the uproar and actually trying to read the report. Grissom whispered, "Did you see this...the fingernail scrapings came back inconclusive. The sample was denatured...by formalin. That couldn't possibly have happened at the dump site."

Sara said, "Formalin isn't something most people keep around the house, so wherever the actual murder scene is, it's probably somewhere that chemical is commonplace. That at least narrows the possibilities."

Graham looked up from his copy of the report and said, a little loudly to make himself heard over Robinson and Robichaud, "Does Agent Culpepper have an explanation for his DNA being found on the victim?"

Crawford signaled for quiet and said, "No, Will he doesn't."

"And where is he now?" asked Grissom.

"He's been put on administrative leave pending further investigation, with instructions to stay available for questioning."

Miranda Robinson stood abruptly, gesturing vigorously, "Are you kidding? What's to keep him from blowing town, Jack?"

"Miranda..."

"No, I'm serious, Jack. Your feelings are clouding your judgment. You don't want your Golden Boy Profiler to turn out to be a serial, so you're…I don't know..."

Crawford interrupted, "Miranda! Stop! I have him under surveillance. We cannot arrest him based on what we have at this point...we'd never get a warrant. If the DNA under the victim's fingernails had come back to Agent Culpepper, that would have been another step toward a warrant. At this point, we have evidence that he had sex with the woman, but we can't prove he killed her."

Grissom and Graham both spoke at the same time, "I don't like him for it."

The weirdness of investigators talking in stereo took the wind from Miranda's sails and brought the others' focus back to the evidence, where it needed to be. Crawford surrendered the floor.

Grissom indicated that Graham should continue. "Look, Culpepper is a prick, but he doesn't fit with this crime. I mean, I'm guessing if he did it he would have signed his fucking name, not left some obscure quote...whoever killed that girl was leaving a message for a specific person. _'I have not forgotten.'_ Culpepper would have just pissed in the face of whoever he was mad at."

Grissom said, "The quote isn't that obscure...it's an abridgment of something Thomas Carlyle wrote: _'Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice; but only accident here below. Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death.'_Obviously, the words wouldn't all fit, and he added _'I have not forgotten,'_ but the reference is clear."

Foster, who'd been watching and listening to the others, flipped to the front page of the report. "Jack, you've ID-ed the victim? Can you tell us about her?"

"We got the ID from her prints: Susan Long...a DC working girl...went by the name Raven. Thirty two years old...there's a mug shot in the report."

Miranda said quietly, "Well, that explains Culpepper's involvement."

Tired and annoyed, Crawford shot back, "What does that mean, Miranda?"

"Oh, come on, Jack. You know as well as I do that Culpepper has a taste for whores...when you sent him down to Atlanta 10 years ago, if I needed him I would cruise Stewart Avenue. I even thought about giving the girls down there department beepers...it would have saved a lot of time."

There were nods of agreement around the table...apparently Culpepper's hobby was an open secret.

"All right...all right...look, I know Rick Culpepper can be an ass. He is often a pain in mine, but this is not about whether or not you like him. This is about who killed Susan Long and the previous victims. I need you all to be able to look at the evidence and follow it where it leads...and whether that's right to Richard Culpepper's door or somewhere else, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that we solve these murders and take the right man off the street."

Crawford looked first at Miranda and then around the table, "If you can be part of the team, great. But if you can't be objective, then I need to know that now."

One by one heads nodded around the table. The last was Miranda Robinson. "OK, Jack. Let's follow some evidence."

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 6:00 pm – Dale City, VA  
****

* * *

**

By six o'clock the group had run out of steam. They'd been going for hours and the rubber sandwiches Crawford had brought in on top of a lot of bad coffee left them feeling too tight and thick headed. Crawford adjourned the Task Force for the night and went back downtown to sort through evidence analyses that had been completed during the afternoon. Mason Robichaud had reached his limit for the day; he excused himself and went to get some sleep. Miranda Robinson hooked up with an old colleague who'd joined the Bureau and they went off to talk over old times.

As Will Graham was shrugging into his overcoat, Foster approached Grissom and Sara. "Dad and I are going to grab some dinner...would you like to join us?"

Seeing the Las Vegas CSIs exchange tired looks, Graham said, "It will be a short supper, I assure you, but better than anything you'll get here...please, join us and we'll have you back here by eight."

When Grissom nodded, Sara said, "Thank you, we'd love to."

xxx

Dale City is a sort of shopping Mecca about 30 miles southwest of Washington, DC. Initially home to Potomac Mills, an enormous outlet mall, it has grown into strip mall heaven and is one of the few places near Quantico where the restaurants don't have arches.

Foster, Graham, Sara and Grissom slipped gratefully into a booth at a little northern Italian restaurant called The Pines. The place was not long on ambiance but it was quiet and the aromas drifting out of the kitchen were inviting. Once the server had distributed the menus and left them to make their choices, Foster said, "They have a number of vegetarian selections, Sara. You must be starving."

Startled, Sara looked sharply at Foster, who smiled.

"If Grissom hadn't mentioned it when we went to get my car, I still would have known from your face this afternoon. I thought you were going eat your report when those sandwiches went around."

Grissom smiled quietly behind his menu. Sara glanced quickly at him and squeezed his thigh under the table. "I _am_ starving, and thanks for noticing."

Once they'd ordered, talk turned to the Task Force and the case. Sara said, "William, what's the deal with Culpepper? I only met him one other time, but the other people in our group seem to have had the same experience...is he that good a profiler?"

Foster, who had just taken a sip of his drink, sputtered and nearly choked. "Are you always this direct?"

Graham glanced at Grissom who nodded. Sara crossed her arms over her chest, but pursed her lips to keep from smiling. "Yes...besides, it's obvious and from the way Miranda Robinson reacted this afternoon...well, it's context for the case and I don't get it."

Grissom said, "It does seem odd that Mr. Crawford would have favored a man who apparently alienates everyone he works with...he must be aware of Culpepper's affect on people."

Their meals arrived just then, giving Agent Foster a few moments to order his story. It was very bad form to discuss Bureau issues with outsiders, but these two were insiders for the duration and the question was relevant to the case.

Dipping some bread in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, he took a bite. "Culpepper came up after Dad left the Bureau...oh, 20 years ago. He's very talented as a profiler and got a lot of attention for his work, but every time he had a success, someone would bring up a case Dad worked on that was more insightful or more clever...more _some_thing. You can imagine how that went over. After a few years he got tired of Dad stealing his thunder, especially since Dad wasn't around to compete with."

Graham wiped his mouth and took a sip of wine. "Culpepper has no respect for me...it must have been aggravating as hell to constantly be compared to me."

Both Grissom and Sara looked confused. Grissom said, "But, Will, you had solved some of the most heinous crimes of the time and captured or killed the perpetrators. How could he not respect that?"

A shadow crossed Graham's face. "I left the Bureau after the last one..."

Sara said, "So? From what I've read, you were seriously injured...and that man had followed you to your home...Dolarhyde?...it would take anyone a long time to recover from that."

This was touching on dangerous territory for Graham. William noted the tightness in his father's face and said, "Sara, Culpepper thinks Dad couldn't cut it...that he wasn't tough enough for the work."

There was silence at the table. Graham examined his fork as if answers were inscribed there. Grissom and Sara looked at one another open mouthed, then at William.

Graham murmured, "He's right, you know...I couldn't cut it...I knew it when I left the first time. I should never have let Crawford drag me back. Everything would have been different if I'd told him no."

"Dad..."

"No, it's true, Willy. I never should have let Jack talk me into taking that last case," Graham said, meeting his son's eyes. He turned his gaze to Grissom, "I lost everything after that. Do you understand?"

Surprised, Grissom realized he did. He nodded and under the table, he sought out Sara's hand where it rested on his thigh, caressing her fingers. Sara's eyes widened slightly in surprise.

"But, Will...even if that were true...that you couldn't cut it, as you put it, why would Mr. Crawford tolerate his abrasive personality? OK, so he's good...I'll take your word for that, but don't you people need cooperation from the locals? The man is a train wreck when it comes to interpersonal skills," Sara said.

William, grateful that the conversation had moved on, answered for his dad, "Well, that's another story. Crawford knew Culpepper's father...I'm not sure what the exact connection was. Rick's father was a judge in Minnesota and they may have met during the Hobbs case." William paused, glancing at Graham, who nodded. "Culpepper joined the Bureau in 1984 and was working his way up through the ranks when his dad was murdered...that was in 1995, I think. There was FBI involvement because he was on the Federal bench, but the murder was never solved. Crawford sort of took Rick under his wing at that point, especially when he'd started showing promise in profiling. Ever since then Culpepper has been Crawford's Golden Boy...and he is very good...an excellent profiler."

Grissom shook his head, "I still don't understand how Mr. Crawford can look the other way...it's not logical."

Graham leaned forward and spoke softly, "Jack Crawford does things for his own reasons, Gil. He always has a plan, even if it looks like he doesn't."

Foster completed the thought, "And he's been right often enough that he has been granted a tremendous amount of leeway with his agents. Culpepper falls into that category. Who knows? He may just like the guy or feel sorry for him or maybe he likes his sign...but until it suits him, Crawford will never reveal his reasoning."

Sara looked from Graham to Foster and thought a moment. "His time may be up."

xxx

When they'd finished eating, Sara excused herself to go to the ladies room. Grissom was discussing some interesting aspects of the case with Graham, so when Will got up to bring the car around, Grissom followed. Foster waited at the table for Sara to return.

"Did we lose the twins?"

Smiling, Foster rose and said, "Dad went to get the car and Grissom went with him so they could continue discussing the case." He held out her coat and she let him help her into it.

"That whole geek mind meld thing they've got going is pretty interesting, don't you think?"

Foster laughed. "Yeah, it is...and it's good for Dad. The last year and a half has been rough for him."

"I gather from what's been said that your mom died...I'm sorry," Sara said as they wound their way through the dining room to the vestibule. She stopped near the door and turned. "William, what did your dad mean when he said that he lost everything after his last case?"

"He and Mom divorced about two years after that...they stayed together while he was healing and through the plastic surgeries on his face, but wherever he went to catch Dolarhyde...well, he couldn't find his way home from there."

Sara studied the pain in his face. Foster had suffered, too. "I see."

"It was very bad...they tried reconciling several times and did eventually get back together, but not long after that Mom was diagnosed with cancer. She fought it for a year. She died in September."

Sara rubbed her fingers together, unconsciously imitating Grissom's gesture as she remembered the warm feel of his hand when he'd reached for hers under the table. "He did lose everything. I'm sorry, William. Thanks for telling me."

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 7 to follow shortly**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30** and **scifijoan** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

Putting this chapter up a day early because I will be traveling all day Friday. Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**Wednesday, January 3, 2007 – 9:30 pm – Quantico  
****

* * *

**

Sara padded out of the bathroom to find Grissom sitting on the side of their makeshift bed going through the report again. "Can't let it go, can you?"

Smiling as he looked up, Grissom took off his glasses and lay the report face down next to him, "I guess not. C'mere and distract me."

"These towels are the worst…" Sara said, struggling with the one she'd wrapped herself in as she crossed to stand in front of him. "They're scratchy and not very big and there aren't enough of them, either. I had to dry my hair with a washcloth."

Grasping her waist, Grissom pulled her forward and rubbed his cheek against her towel clad belly. "You're right…these _are_ bad. What do you suggest we do?"

Sara ran her fingers through his hair, then pushed his head back so she could look at him. "I think I should just take it off…what do you think?"

His hand slid up her body until it covered hers. Gently, he opened her fingers where she held the too small towel together so that it fell to the floor behind her. "Oh, I agree…completely."

xxx

Sometime later, Grissom retrieved his glasses and the report where they'd fallen next to the bed. He couldn't resist paging through it one more time.

Sara watched as he slid seamlessly from lover to investigator…it still shocked her that he could shift gears like that. She wasn't going to have any coherent thoughts about the case until morning. "Gil…" she said softly.

"Hmmm?"

"Thanks for letting Foster know I don't eat meat. That was sweet," she said.

He looked up and smiled at her. "You're welcome." Glancing at the clock and realizing he needed to give it up for the night, he put his glasses and the report on the bedside table. When he turned back to her, Sara was leaning on her elbow, watching him.

She studied his face carefully. "The resemblance is remarkable…you and Graham."

Grissom rubbed his cheek. "Is it? I mean, I look at him and I can see it…we really look that much alike?"

"Yeah. He has some faint scarring from the Dolarhyde attack…and your eyes are a brighter blue, but yeah. You could be twins."

When he didn't respond, Sara said, "And there's a connection between you, isn't there? I saw it a couple of times…you were in sync…it was strange."

"You saw that? It wasn't that we said the same words at the same time…it was more than that…" he said, searching for words. He shook his head. "I can't explain it."

"I asked William about his mother…when you and Graham were bringing the car around…" she started.

"He lost her, Sara…after his last case…he lost her and he's never gotten over it. I gather she died recently, but he lost her a long time ago and it killed him," he said, almost to himself.

Sara's eyes narrowed as she watched him try to interpret something he just _knew_. She said, "William told me they divorced after the Dolarhyde case. Somehow they managed to reconcile recently, but then Molly was diagnosed with cancer. They only had a year together after that."

When he looked at her again Sara was shocked by the sorrow in his eyes and she knew he was wondering about their future. Scooting close so she could whisper in his ear, she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," he said, hugging her hard.

**Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 12:30 am – 19th Street, NW – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Rick Culpepper was beside himself. Who the hell did Crawford think he was, accusing him of killing that woman? He ought to know better than that, DNA or no DNA.

It was too bad about Raven though. After Crawford had grilled him, he realized who the victim must be and how his DNA got there. He smiled remembering the afternoon he'd spent with her...Raven had one sweet pussy, among other things...and that look he liked: long and lean.

Rubbing himself unconsciously, Culpepper thought about the crime – what Crawford had told him – and wondered how they were ever going to solve it without him. True, they had those people on the Task Force: there was some talent there. But they didn't have _him_ and he was the best profiler the Bureau had...had ever had, including that broke dick Graham.

The mere thought of that freak made him angry all over again. Culpepper started to pace, looking out the front window every now and then at the surveillance Crawford had on the street. It was so unfair: those clowns sent to watch _him_. He felt like he was going to explode and he really needed to calm down...he needed to clear his head so he could think. There was only one way to do that.

Fifteen minutes later a nondescript man bundled up in a black overcoat crossed the street in front of the surveillance team. Culpepper had gone out his back door, walked down the alley to Frasier Court and then cut back out onto 19th Street several houses down. He'd casually strolled past the unmarked on purpose, confident they had no idea their subject had outsmarted them. Once safely past, he made a right on R Street and jogged up to Massachusetts Avenue where he flagged a cab.

In twenty minutes Rick Culpepper was cruising Vermont Avenue. Several girls chatted him up and offered their services, but they weren't quite right. He kept looking until he found her: dark and beautiful, with legs up to there.

When he left her hours later, his cock was raw but his head was clear. He had a lot of thinking to do.

******Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 7:30 am – Quantico****

* * *

**

Graham tossed his briefcase and overcoat on a chair by the door in conference room 1516. It was empty; not surprising since the Task Force wasn't scheduled to meet until nine. He was hoping to use this time to go over the report again…to give himself a chance to feel his way around the case.

Thankful that the room lighting was on a rheostat, Graham dimmed the lights a bit to ease that unpleasant fluorescent glare. He opened his copy of the report and readied a notepad, hoping to have something to write in it. Well, that wasn't true…what he actually hoped was that his talent…or curse…whatever the fuck it was… had died in the many years since he'd used it last.

But he'd had enough flashes in civilian life to know that part of himself was still there…dormant perhaps, but alive. The things he somehow _knew_ on the outside didn't scare the crap out of him like this would.

After ten minutes he got up and walked around the room. The pictures he had were awful…small, dark and useless. He'd have to ask Jack to get them the actual scene photos. In fact, he himself needed access to everything in the files, especially the old cases…and they'd have to give him a layout room so he could look at it all at once.

Maybe Grissom worked this way, too…he'd have to ask. He was still trying to sort out what had happened between them yesterday; that groove they'd dropped into together. The looks thing…OK, so they looked alike. Big deal. Graham was willing to bet there were more people in the world who looked like him than there were people who _thought_ like him.

It was frightening and it was a relief. Frightening because that thing he did…it scared the shit out of him. Did Grissom do it, too? He'd never met anyone else who understood, but if Grissom had that particular turn of mind...well, he'd finally have someone to talk to. Hope trickled into that deep, still pool of knowing that beckoned him like some noisome lover. That was where the fear came from: the pull was so strong, he was never sure he'd be able to reel himself in afterwards…hadn't been after Dolarhyde and look what happened…

When thoughts of Molly beckoned, he stalked over to his briefcase and pulled out the Jim Beam mini he'd saved from the plane. _"One will never be enough,"_ he thought. Still, just knowing it was there was a comfort: he could drown in booze rather than thoughts of her. The little bottle winked at him as he slid it back into its hiding place. _"Not yet..."_

Relief…he needed relief. So what the fuck was he doing working on another serial case?

"_I'm over my head here,"_ he thought sadly. _"Molly...how will I find my way without you?" _

Grissom. Maybe Grissom was the key. He knew...he knew about being lost...and being found. Gil had _known_ when he'd told him he'd lost everything after Molly slipped away because he had walked a similar path with Sara. He'd gazed into the same abyss only he'd been lucky...death hadn't taken his Sara.

With a deep sigh Graham picked up the report again, dropped into a chair and tried to concentrate on it. His thoughts whirled between Molly and Jim Beam for a long time.

******Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 8:50 am – Sculpture Garden – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

The National Gallery Sculpture Garden is nestled in a six acre green off the National Mall. Opened in 1999, it is home to 17 modern sculptures by such artists as Alexander Calder, Roy Lichtenstein and Joan Miró. During tourist season, the walkways are clogged with out-of-towners who leave confused, their idea of art assaulted by the work. In winter, the only visitors are Mall regulars who use the area to jog, walk, or enjoy whatever sun might present itself.

Cheryl Cummings was early today. Her volunteer job as a docent at the East Wing didn't start until nine-thirty. On pleasant mornings she liked to study the sculptures situated in front of the Hirschhorn or here in the Sculpture Garden. There was just something about seeing these pieces in the shifting light…it made them seem alive somehow.

Today she wanted to study Magdalena Abakanowicz's installation, _Girls_, which was set up beneath a little stand of linden trees. It was haunting…30 three foot tall headless and vaguely forlorn figures standing stiffly at attention, all facing the walkway as if waiting for…well, she didn't know quite what. They seemed small and helpless; they weren't even close enough to give comfort to one another. Cummings smiled at that thought. Her art training made these pieces living entities, ideas given form by their maker. She tried to open herself to what they had to say.

The wind had blown over a temporary snow fence the Park Service had put up along the walkway. In places it even obstructed the path. She was concentrating so hard on getting safely around the tangle of wood lath and twisted wire that she failed to notice an addition to the _Girls_.

Turned out the addition had a lot to say but Cheryl didn't hear it. She ran screaming all the way up 7th Street to the Archives Metro station before she found a police officer.

**Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 9:00 am – Quantico  
****

* * *

**

Coffee and doughnuts were going around the table while the Task Force got settled in conference room 1516. Crawford was not in evidence, but a stack of new reports indicated he'd been by.

Mason Robichaud looked at his copy with a grimace and tossed it back on the table. "I don't know about you all, but these little reports aren't worth a damn for reviewing cases. We should be looking at evidence, not summaries. This is useless."

Graham tried to talk around the doughnut he was eating. He managed, "I was thinking the ex…" before choking on some powdered sugar that went down the wrong way.

Miranda Robinson was up and slapping him on the back. "Still working on those manners, I see," she said, handing him a bottle of water.

"Workin' hard, Miranda. You'll notice I managed to wear shoes today,'" Graham said, eyes watering but able to breathe. He coughed deeply a few times and continued. "I agree, Mason. We need as much actual evidence as we can get our hands on. That might be tough in the older cases, but Jack should be able to get stuff on the last two at least."

Grissom said, "We have no useful timeline for these murders. We need to look at each case in sequence in order to figure out how they relate to the Sky Landing case. If we're tracking a serial, we have to be able to work out the signature in as much detail as possible…I don't see how we can get out ahead of him otherwise."

"Could we each take a case or two, review it and present it?" Sara suggested. "That way we wouldn't be spinning our wheels getting up to speed. I don't know how long his cycle, but he seems to be speeding up with two victims in a few days… we should be ready." Even as she said it, memories of Tracy Berg and Eileen Snow crossed her mind, and anger for them and these new victims bubbled in her chest. _She_ was bloody well going to be ready.

"I have a suggestion," Foster said, looking pointedly at Miranda Robinson before taking in the rest of the team. "We spent a lot of time considering the ramifications of Agent Culpepper's involvement in this yesterday. I think we should table that for the moment."

Miranda held up her hands, "Hey, I already told Jack I was here to chase evidence. Give me some to run down and I will concentrate on that."

Graham took the last bite of his doughnut. "Good deal." When he'd taken a sip of coffee to wash that down, he said, "Wonder where Jack is?"

"I'll go see, Dad. Why don't you have the bear claw next?"

"Four's my limit…" Graham called after him. The group laughed and bantered back and forth a bit until Crawford strode into the room, Foster on his heels. "We have another body."

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 8 to follow shortly_**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30**,** scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 12:00 pm – Sculpture Garden – Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

By the time the Task Force arrived at the scene, the area was thick with local law enforcement, bystanders and news media. Since The J. Edgar Hoover building was only a block away at the intersection of 9th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, there was ample Bureau presence as well.

Crawford quickly detached himself from the group to speak to his counterparts: Charles Davenport, Chief of the Metropolitan Police Department and Lawrence Nelson, Capitol Police Chief. Apparently FBI jurisdiction had not been established to their satisfaction. Evidence collection could not begin until the issue was settled.

While the three men were ironing out their differences, the Task Force approached the perimeter to see what they could see. The body had been covered with a sheet and remained in position on the left side of the sculpture installation near the walkway. There was low growing ground cover on the left and right boundaries and a hedge along the back. The immediate area around the 30 freestanding figures was spread with some sort of fine mulching material. Lucky for them: it looked like it had retained footprints. The windblown snow fence that so distracted Cheryl Cummings had been removed completely and set out of the way on the opposite side of the walkway.

Crawford finally came to some agreement with Davenport and Nelson, there was hand shaking all around and he ambled back over to the Task Force. "DC and the Capitol Police are ceding jurisdiction…what a surprise."

Mason Robichaud asked, "Has the body been pronounced, Jack?"

"Of course not, Robby…the infighting started the minute the paramedics left. She was decently covered and that's it, so we're starting from scratch. How do you want to handle it?"

Grissom and Graham spoke at once, "We need to get shots of those footprints…" They glanced quickly at one another before looking at the others, who were all staring back at them curiously.

Miranda mused, "Stereo…interesting…"

Will nodded for Grissom to continue. Pointing to several spots around the scene, Gil said, "The ground here is sheltered and there are some good prints. We should get photographs before we do anything with the body."

Mason stripped off his gloves. "That's fine by me…she's not going anywhere."

"You've got at least 20 techs here, Jack…do you want us to collect or direct or what?" asked Miranda, gesturing toward the knot of investigators several feet away.

Crawford, hands in pockets, swiveled to nod at the techs standing behind him, then turned back to Miranda. "What would you prefer?"

Miranda rolled her eyes. "I would like to talk to the woman who found the body…where is she?"

"She's sitting in a cruiser over on Constitution…want me to take you to her?"

Miranda pulled a notebook out of her pocket. "Just point me and I'll find her." Crawford indicated she should proceed toward 9th Street, turn right and walk until she hit Constitution Avenue.

"I'll be back," she called over her shoulder.

Gesturing the Bureau investigators forward, Crawford said, "How about we get some duck boards set up so my people can photograph this soft ground without turning the area into a quagmire. After that, Dr. Robichaud can pronounce. You can all examine the body and direct collection around it if you like. After it has been removed, search the rest of the scene and collect anything else you find?"

To no one's surprise, Grissom and Graham spoke at once, "That'll work." Sara exchanged a look with Agent Foster while the techs dispersed to begin their tasks.

As Crawford turned to leave, Sara followed up on the request the group had made on the drive to the District. "Mr. Crawford, do you think you'll be able to have the old evidence, from the early cases, waiting for us when we get back to Quantico?"

"I'll see what I can do." Jack smiled, pulling out his phone and punching in a number. Taking in the rest of the group, he looked up and asked, "Anything else I need to take care of? No? I will try to see you people back in Quantico late this afternoon. Now, I'm going to go ride herd on our people at the lab." He turned on his heel, already giving orders to the person on the other end of the line. Reporters on the periphery of the Sculpture Garden swarmed him as he as he walked out of sight.

xxx

The new scene was just as horrific as the old one: young Caucasian female victim pinned to the ground through the torso, this time with a wooden stake. Splinters embedded in her fingers indicated she had been alive when she'd been dumped.

A message was burned into the flesh of her abdomen:

_Judgment is as  
sure as death._

_I have not forgotten_.

The group watched as Mason accompanied the body around a bend in the walkway. As the knot of FBI techs dispersed, Grissom looked around for Sara. He saw her standing stiff legged, arms crossed over her chest at the edge of the scene. Though her back was to him he hadn't needed the name on her jacket to recognize her or the distress in her posture.

He went to her, touching her softly on the arm. "You're having a hard time with this, aren't you?"

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

He tenderly brushed her hair away from her cheek. "Anything I can do to help?"

Her face reddened and her eyes filled with tears. "Talk to me."

"We have more evidence this time, Sara. The footprints are a start and we got to them before they were destroyed. I don't know what else this girl will tell us, but I'm trying very hard to listen," he said softly. "It's the best I can do for her and the others…it's the best any of us can do."

Sara took a deep breath and wiped her eyes, embarrassed. After a moment she rubbed his sleeve. "Thank you."

She was rewarded with a warm half smile. "I'm going to work…care to join me?"

"I hate this," she said, taking another deep breath.

"I know."

"OK…I'm good." Looking around, she said, "I'm going to start with the perimeter," before glancing back at Grissom.

"I want to get a better look at those footprints…I'll be right over there."

Will Graham watched the exchange between the Las Vegas CSIs and remembered the cool touch of Molly's hand on his cheek the last time she'd known who he was. As regret settled like a weight in his chest, he wished with all his heart that the love of his life had survived his work.

xxx

Grissom and Graham stood side by side on the left edge of the scene, thinking. "Did you notice that set of prints leading from the body to the barberry hedge at the rear?" Gil asked.

"I did…they don't come back," Graham said, walking down one of the duck boards to take a closer look. He knelt down next to the bushes. "Hey…" he started.

Grissom had walked up behind him and was looking over Will's shoulder. "There's an insect or some other small prey impaled on a thorn, isn't there?"

Sitting back on his heels, Graham felt in his pocket for an evidence bag. "It's a cricket…how did you know what I was looking for?"

A plastic bag appeared in his line of sight. Graham took it, then leaned down to pull the insect gently out of the bush. He held it up so they both could see. Gil said, "There was a mouse impaled on a thorn in the pyracantha bush next to the body at the Sky Landing scene. That was natural, though."

Graham nodded, dropping the cricket into the bag. "This was planted. Butcher birds wouldn't be hunting in town."

"In this part of the country that would be the Loggerhead Shrike…_ Lanius ludovicuanus._" Scanning the immediate area, Grissom said, "You're right, the terrain is all wrong."

Graham stood, turned and grinned, offering the bag to Grissom. "Ever printed a cricket?"

Smiling in return, Gil took the bag and examined the cricket inside. "There's always a first time."

Both men walked to the edge of the scene where they'd been standing before. They stood side by side once again, thinking. Agent Foster was nearby organizing the evidence to be taken to the Bureau lab; he noticed the pair and smiled to himself. He hadn't seen his dad this engaged in years.

Sara finally reached the tumble of snow fence near the walkway in her spiral in from the perimeter. "Grissom," Sara called from the other side of the walkway. "I found some blood."

Everyone in the area made their way over to her. "This snow fence is missing a stake. Maybe this is where the one in the victim came from. Look..." Sara leaned over and pointed out a break in the fence. "Three of the five twists of wire holding the others in place have been cut. The last two are ragged…like his cutter was dull. He was in a hurry…maybe he had to wrestle with it to get this piece free and he cut himself on the sharp edges."

Grissom handed her several swabs. "Get some pictures and as much of that blood as you can. Good catch, Sara…let's hope it's the killer and not that lady who found the body," he said, leaving Sara to smile happily to herself as he went in search of Miranda Robinson and Ms. Cummings.

xxx

There is a single spot on 7th Street with a clear view of Abakanowicz's _Girls_. If any of the investigators had looked up, they would have seen Rick Culpepper watching intently from a bench outside the West Wing of the National Gallery.

At five o'clock, when the last of the crime scene investigators left, he melted into the throng of people flowing past as they made their various ways home from work.

**Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 6:00 pm – Alexandria, VA  
****

* * *

**

"This OK?" asked Graham as he rolled into the Target parking lot.

Grissom nodded. "Fine…I won't be long. Want to come in?"

"Sure."

They leaned into the stiff breeze that had sprung up, making the already low temperatures feel that much colder. "This is why I live in Florida," Graham called to be heard over the wind.

When they got through the vestibule, Gil snagged a cart and looked around at the overhead signage until he oriented himself. One wheel rattling wildly, he headed off for the Bed and Bath Department.

Both men were stunned at the selection. Neither was aware of the picture they made: twin overcoat-clad men standing side by side, lost in thought, in the middle of an explosion of terry cloth. Grissom leaned slightly toward Graham and murmured, "This could take longer than I thought."

Graham grinned. "Oh, come on, Grissom. Décor is not a major concern here…" he said as he walked to the selection of plain white towels. "I can tell you the Academy laundry will destroy anything that isn't plain white."

Grissom followed, running his hand over the top of one soft stack. "Ahhh...hadn't thought of that…" After he'd held up several sizes, he put a dozen bath sheets in his cart. "That should do it."

"Do you have a permanent marker in your kit?" Graham asked.

He had to think a moment. "Yeah…why?"

"Better put your name on them or you'll never get them back…towels and linens are all washed together…you have to tell the people in the laundry about personal items so they can list that on your ticket."

Gil said, "Oh…OK…" as he rattled around a corner back into the main aisle. After a few feet he turned left. "Sara is going to want to change the sheets and all the Academy has is twin beds…I need to buy sheets."

"How did you get a full size bed?"

Grinning, Grissom told Will about Sara's thoughtfulness, planning, and inventive use of duct tape. "The least I can do is make sure we have enough clean sheets."

Still chuckling, Graham said, "Good thinking."

Gil looked up over the top of his glasses as he put four white sheet sets and matching pillowcases into the cart, smiling. "Thank you."

The rest of their trip was quick. When Graham grabbed a couple of cans of nuts and some Slim Jims, he looked up to find Grissom smiling at him with a cocked eyebrow. "What?" he asked, trying to look innocent.

"Nothing," he answered, shaking his head.

Once back in the car, Graham glanced at his watch. "We shouldn't be too late meeting up with the others…that only took 20 minutes."

Grissom buckled his seatbelt. "Thanks for stopping. I didn't know how else to get this stuff."

There was a pause which finally caught Gil's attention. He looked over at Graham, who was studying him thoughtfully. "She's quite a woman…isn't she?"

Chin rising slightly, he fought the anxiety that suddenly grabbed at his gut. He wasn't used to discussing Sara with anyone…and after so much secrecy, it was a little scary to have it out in the open like this. But their relationship wasn't under wraps anymore: he had to remember that. There was no reason to hide it from Graham. He made himself relax and nodded slowly, "Yes, she is."

Graham leaned forward and started the car, still holding Grissom's gaze. Then he turned his head and stared out the windshield. Putting the car in gear, he eased out of their parking space and onto Route 1 south. "Hold on to that."

**Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 6:00 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

The media wall was alive with talking heads. All the locals were up: NBC4, Fox5, ABC7, News Channel 8 and WUSA9 as well as CNN and MSNBC. He'd added the last two because he felt the story was ripe to go national and he wanted to see it when it busted out.

It had been a long and lazy day for him after a hard night's work. Media coverage about the newest Messenger had started at nine thirty with break-in Special Reports on the local outlets. He'd had to laugh at that clown Pat Collins, doing his very bad and unintentional impression of William Shatner, breathlessly relating what was known about the new discovery and the one from Sky Landing. Sadly, that wasn't much. No one had gotten hold of The Messages yet, but he had hopes for the Fox5 guy…

He was glad he'd taken a break to go visit The Messenger on the Mall. Despite the cold, it had been pleasant near the Sculpture Garden. He rarely got to watch crime scene investigators poring over his work, so today was a special treat. They all looked so stern and purposeful. Clearly, The Message was lost on them. Well, there was only one person who needed to understand The Message and he'd get it…sooner or later.

It hadn't taken long to fast forward through the day's Special Reports once he'd gotten back to the command center. The broadcasts were just repeats of the ones he'd seen earlier in the day. His attention wandered back to The Messenger and their brief time together. She, of course, did not appreciate the grand scheme of things or her place in The Mission. Too bad, really. All that screaming and crying was hard to take...well, until he'd cut out her tongue.

His hand wandered to his crotch, rubbing absently as he remembered how sweet she'd been…legs, legs, legs and a tight pussy for a working girl. She'd had that look he liked…long and lean. Just like Sidle. God, when he'd seen her today bent over the snow fence with her coat hiked up over her ass, giving him a glorious view of legs that went straight to Heaven, it had been all he could do not to beat off right there in the street.

Reaching for the lubricant he kept nearby, he squeezed a warm little pool into his palm. Mmmmm…the first flood of slickness as fingers skated over flesh…he loved that. He probably shouldn't be doing this. He _should_ be watching for The Revelation of The Message…what would Papa say? Still, he could watch the wall with one eye while…oh, man…he appreciated his handiwork.

A question danced at the edge of his mind, heightening his pleasure: what would it be like to do CSI Sidle? It took half a bottle of lube to consider all the possibilities. She'd make a splendid Messenger...just splendid.

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 9 to follow shortly.**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30**,** scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER NINE**

**Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 6:00 pm – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

Marion Addison stopped at the water fountain near conference room 236, DNA results tucked under her arm. Shaking four aspirin out of the bottle she kept in her lab coat pocket, she popped the pills and fought gravity getting them down with a slurp from the fountain. Grateful she hadn't choked on that little maneuver, she straightened, still not wanting to deliver this particular report. Well, she could only delay so long. Squaring her shoulders she went into the conference room.Jack Crawford was seated with his back to the door. _"He must be really tired,"_ she thought. He never sat where he couldn't see someone coming up behind him, even here.

Before she'd gone in she'd known Crawford was on the phone; she'd heard him through the thick double doors. She wasn't prepared for the shouting she heard as soon as she'd cracked the door.

"So, you're telling me no? ...You're kidding…dammit Davenport, it's been in the news that you've got cameras all over the fucking city, so don't try to pretend you don't…_BULLSHIT!_ Don't give me that! I know you're recording, even if you're telling the media you're not. No, I won't tell anybody…Jesus, Chuck, I'm trying to catch a killer who dumped a body on the God damned Mall, for Christ's sake…you've got to have something from the area and I want to see it…no, I'm not going to discuss this with the mayor and don't try to hand me off to Lawrence because I know where the control room is and it's right under _your_ ass…yes…yes…I can have a courier there in 15 minutes…OK, the alley behind your building. Will they need a password? Fuck you, too, Chuck," he said slamming the receiver down. Crawford was so angry he stood up and nearly knocked Marion Addison off her feet. "Christ, he's more cloak-and-dagger than we are…sorry, Marion…"

"It's OK, Jack," she said, backing up a few steps.

Sitting back down, Crawford picked up the phone and punched in a number. "Ed? I need you to get a man over to the DC Police Department in the next 15 minutes...Chuck Davenport...no, not inside...go around to the alley that runs behind the building. He'll hand off a disk...yes, I know it's silly. Just get it to me as soon as you can. Thanks, Ed." Once he'd hung up, he made a notation on the pad at his elbow, then scrubbed his face with his hands.

Marion said quietly, "I have the DNA results." Taking a seat on Crawford's right, she held out the folder.

Crawford took a deep breath. "Is this going to make me unhappy, Marion?"

"Probably."

"Shit...Culpepper?"

"Yes. Vaginal and anal swabs. The blood recovered from that fencing and some transfer on the victim…also Culpepper."

Crawford grimaced as he opened the file and scanned the report. After a moment he rubbed his forehead slowly and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fingernail scrapings?" he asked heavily.

Addison shook her head. "Sorry, Jack. Samples were denatured with formalin, just like last time."

"All right...thanks, Marion," he said, picking up the phone again.

Marion Addison stood and gazed down at Crawford: she couldn't think of a thing to say. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she placed her hand lightly on Crawford's shoulder then left the room.

As she closed the door she heard Crawford on the phone. "Edna, could you come up here, please? I need to dictate the scope of a search warrant. Thank you. Oh, and Edna, would you ask Ed Blevins to come up here, too? I need him to work with DC on an arrest warrant."

**Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 6:30 pm – Lorton, VA****

* * *

**

_"This is WTOP with traffic and weather on the eights. We have major backup on 95 south...overturned tractor trailer in Woodbridge...cleanup is well underway, however, only one lane is getting by on the left..." _

Winking tail lights stretched down 95 South in an unbroken line. Miranda Robinson leaned forward from the back seat of the van. "You think this is bad. You should see the traffic in Atlanta."

Foster grimaced and glanced quickly in the rear view mirror, then back at the road. "Thanks so much for sharing, Miranda...I'm going to try the back way. There are a lot of stop lights, but at least we'll be moving...I hope," he said as he merged onto exit 166 toward the Fairfax County Parkway. Within minutes he'd made a right onto Route 1 South. Traffic was thick, but manageable.

Mason Robichaud looked at his watch. "William, Maybe you should call Jack and let him know we're stuck on the road...when I was finishing the post, he told me he'd meet us in Quantico at seven."

Foster pulled out his phone and punched in a number. Sara turned slightly and spoke over the top of her seat. "Were this victim's injuries similar to the Sky Landing victim, Mason?"

"You know...they weren't. Some of the more extreme elements of torture were absent," Mason said from his spot behind Foster. "I've seen a few serials in my day...it's unusual for one to de-escalate, especially when there is another attack this soon."

Sara tilted her head as she considered this, "Huh."

Foster closed his cell. "Jack's not answering, but I got hold of his assistant...Crawford had those files we asked for sent out to the Academy. Edna said he'll get out to Quantico when he has the last of the lab results."

Miranda said, "That'll give us time to go over the old cases...we haven't heard anything about those victims yet...Do we even know how many other victims there are?"

Sara said, "All Mr. Crawford said was the killings went back 10 years, across several states. He didn't say anything about the signature, but having seen two victims, it's pretty clear what that is..."

Suddenly, the radio that had been droning in the background caught their attention.

_"...FBI Agent Richard Culpepper has been charged with the murders of Susan Long and an unidentified woman whose body was discovered on the Mall earlier today. Metropolitan Police Chief Charles Davenport made the announcement minutes ago but offered no details. This is Hank Silverberg reporting from Washington, DC." _

**Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 7:30 pm – Quantico  
****

* * *

**

Graham took a bite of his sandwich. "How's yours? Good?"

"Very," Grissom said, wiping tzatziki sauce off his chin. "I haven't had souvlaki in years. Wonder where the others are?" Gil said, checking his watch.

Still chewing, Graham said, "We hit the traffic just right...they didn't."

Grissom swallowed and nodded toward the stack of file boxes at the other end of the table. "It's going to take awhile to go through all that, even if we split up."

"Yeah," Will said, talking a swallow of soda. "I don't even know how many cases we're talking...we could be here all night."

"I think that butcher bird association we made today is completely new. Crawford would have told us to look for it if anyone had seen it before, right?" Grissom said as he cleared up the mess from his meal. "It's an unusual signature. The only other instance I know of is the Garrett Jacob Hobbs case."

Graham cleaned up his mess, too. "Oh, sure. Jack was on the Hobbs case, remember? He'd have mentioned it."

"But, Hobbs is dead and that piece of information wasn't generally known. It was never released, was it...even after the case was closed?"

A shadow flitted across Will's face. "No, I don't think it was."

Grissom walked down the table to the stack of file boxes and pulled off one of the lids. "Why do you suppose the butcher bird thing is repeating now? It's been, what...27 years. Coincidence?"

Graham joined him and took the lid off another box. "Not impossible...but I don't like coincidences. We need to look for a connection to the Hobbs case and rule it out."

Gil took out several files and sat down to read. He looked up, smiling, "Or in."

Excited voices in the hall made them look up just as the rest of the team burst through the conference room doors. Miranda said, "Well, I'm not surprised at all. There's something off about him. I told Jack about it years ago, but he blew me off."

Sara smiled when she saw Grissom. "There you are. We've been trying to reach you," she said while the rest of the group talked over one another.

Gil got up and went to her. "No cell phones allowed in the compound...we've only been here about 20 minutes." He searched her face. "How're you doing? Better?"

"I'm OK, Griss...I'm good," she said, reconnecting. "We heard on the radio that they've arrested Rick Culpepper. You didn't know?"

Grissom whipped around seeking Graham, who'd just heard the same news from his son. "No, we hadn't heard."

Miranda Robinson started pulling through the grease-stained brown bag at the end of the table "Did you boys buy supper for us? I'm starved," she said. "What all is in here?"

Graham took paper-wrapped sandwiches from her as she emptied the bag, setting them near the cold sodas in the center of the table. "There's several kinds of subs here...turkey, tuna, ham, Italian..." He nodded to Sara. "There's a big Greek salad for you, Sara, and tomato soup," he said, holding them out to her.

She glanced quickly at Grissom, then took her meal, smirking at Will. "Thank you. That was sweet of you to get food for us."

He smiled back. "Not my idea. Thank him."

Sara sat and opened the Styrofoam containers holding her supper. Grissom sat next to her. The others arranged themselves around the table, unwrapping sandwiches and snapping open sodas. All except Miranda, who poked through the cold drinks and turned to Graham. "What, no beer?"

He shrugged. "Sorry."

Once everyone was settled, Grissom asked, "They've arrested Culpepper? What else are they saying?"

Mason Robichaud put down his sandwich and took a sip of soda. "No details, but you have to assume the DNA evidence we collected matched Culpepper. I can't imagine Jack would proceed with a warrant otherwise."

Graham and Grissom spoke at once, "But he's all wrong for this..."

Miranda jumped, startled, then shook her head. "DNA doesn't lie, fellas."

"You have a theory, Dad?" asked Foster.

"One that matches Rick Culpepper to the two recent victims? No," said Graham.

"Those the files from the old cases?" Miranda said. "Find anything yet?"

Grissom held up the one he'd been reading. "We just started. Now that you're here, we can divide up the cases...maybe then we'll understand what we're looking at."

Once the last of the food had been eaten and the debris cleared away, Foster pulled the boxes to the center of the table. "Any idea how many cases we're dealing with?" He looked at Grissom and his dad, who both shook their heads. "How about we figure that out first?" he said, taking folders out of the boxes and making stacks by case.

It took a few minutes, but eventually the files were divided into seven stacks:

September 16, 1997  
Emily Harper – 28  
Duluth, Minnesota

March 8, 2000  
Audrey Williamson – 19  
Minneapolis, Minnesota

December 12, 2001  
Jane Doe #11 – Mid twenties  
Milwaukee, Wisconsin

January 20, 2002  
Jennifer Simmons – 22  
Chicago, Illinois

August 5, 2003  
Katherine Hughes – 26  
Indianapolis, Indiana

May 31, 2004  
Mary Moss – 18  
Louisville, Kentucky

July 9, 2005  
Madeline Chase – 16  
Cincinnati, Ohio

Each investigator took a pile representing a single case. The extra one, the Jane Doe from Milwaukee, went to Grissom as it was thin and he was already partway through a case.

Graham said, "Gil and I found something today...any of you know what a butcher bird is?"

"I do," said Mason. "It's a small bird...about the size of a robin but grey, black, and white. Marked similarly to a mockingbird. It's a songbird...but it's unusual...it hunts live prey...insects, small rodents...even snakes."

Sara frowned slightly, curious, "Why is it called a butcher bird?"

Grissom smiled. "Birds of the species_ ludovicuanus_...or shrikes…are called butcher birds. Their feet are weak. Unlike raptors, they cannot perch, hold prey and feed at the same time. To overcome this deficit they impale their prey on thorns, even barbed wire. The thorn holds the kill so the birds can eat. They sometimes store prey in what is called a larder...impaling several kills only to come back later to feed."

"That mouse! I saw that at the Sky Landing scene...in the pyracantha bush," Sara grinned.

Graham nodded. "Gil and I found another specimen...a cricket...impaled on a thorn in the barberry hedge that runs behind the Sculpture Garden scene. It wasn't natural; it was planted. Shrikes wouldn't hunt in town...they like rural areas: fields and open forest."

Excited, Grissom picked up the story. "There were footprints leading from the Sculpture Garden victim to the spot in the hedge where we found the insect, but none coming back. And they were fresh, probably left by the killer."

"That's some clue," said Miranda appreciatively.

Graham leaned forward in his seat, "We have more. There was a case 27 years ago...Garrett Jacob Hobbs..."

"That case you and Grissom worked together...in Minneapolis," said Sara.

Will pointed to her and smiled. "Yes! Hobbs was called the Minnesota Shrike. The reason for the name was never released: butcher bird kills were found near every one of his victims. It's an unusual signature...the odds of it occurring again..."

Foster said quietly, "Slim to none."

Graham grinned. "Exactly."

Mason said, "Our oldest cases...from 1997 and 2000...are from Minnesota."

Miranda grinned and flipped open the top folder in her case file, "_What_ a coincidence!"

Grissom quirked an eyebrow and reopened the file he'd been reading. "If it is, I'll buy you a beer."

She laughed. "You're on, Gil. And I only drink the imported stuff."

Armed with new knowledge, the Task Force set about working through seven chances to find evidence that had been overlooked by others.

**Thursday, January 4, 2007 – 8:30 pm – DC Jail – Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

From the inside of a jail cell, Richard Culpepper looked daggers at his old friend Crawford. "You know I didn't do this, Jack."

Crawford tilted his head, studying the younger man...the man who might well be responsible for nine murders, not to mention the end of his career. Despite the evidence, he didn't think Culpepper was a killer. "There's nothing I can do, Rick. Your semen was found inside both bodies. Your blood was found at the second scene. That alone is enough to convict..."

Pacing around the cell, Culpepper ranted awhile about his penchant for whores proving he'd had sex with the victims and nothing else. It was a point, but a small one. Eventually he ran out of steam and sat on the bunk in the cell. He looked up at Crawford and said, "I need to make a long distance call. Can you arrange for me to have use of a phone?"

Crawford nodded, "I'll see to it."

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 9 to follow shortly.**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary: **Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy **who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN**

**Thursday, January 5, 2007 – 2:00 am – Quantico  
****

* * *

**

One by one, members of the team had to give it up for the night. Mason and Miranda left together for their rooms at eleven. At midnight Foster poked his dad to let him know he was leaving. Graham set out for his hotel a few minutes later, which left Grissom and Sara alone in the conference room.Sara stood and eased her back. "Long day. We should get some sleep."

Grissom set the file he was studying on the table, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I've read this page at least three times...I can't think anymore." He looked around the room, puzzled. "Where is everybody?"

Sara rolled her eyes, "They left...hours ago. You didn't hear any of that?"

"I was reading?"

"Let's go," she grinned, picking up her coat and holding his out to him.

Grissom stood, scanned the file one more time before closing it reluctantly and placing it on top of his stack. He shrugged into his overcoat and helped Sara on with hers.

"May I walk you home, miss?" he said, offering his arm.

"Why, thank you, sir."

They were almost out the door when he turned back and grabbed the file he'd been studying.

In moonlight, the snow dusted compound was quiet; a pristine quilt in shades of blue. They made their way to the dorm hand in hand, marveling at this taste of winter. Still, it was nice to reach the warmth of their room.

"What's this?" Sara asked, pointing toward several shopping bags on the bed.

Grissom, busy hanging up his overcoat, glanced over his shoulder, "Will and I stopped at Target on our way back from DC. I picked up a few things."

There was a flurry of crackling as the bags were emptied. Gil turned to see a smiling Sara holding a tall, wobbling stack of towels. "Are there any left in the store?" she said, words muffled a bit by the terry cloth.

He went quickly to her and plucked half the towels out of her arms, then leaned in for a kiss. "There are, actually. Do we need more?"

"Oh, I think we have enough…for now." When they'd put them all away, Sara turned at looked at him with a smirk. "I'm going take a shower." Stepping close to put her arms around his neck, she gave him a big kiss. "Thank you."

They stood a moment, enjoying the comfort of being close. Gil kissed her neck and whispered, "You're welcome."

xxxx

Sara stood wrapped in a towel looking down at Grissom where he'd dozed on the bed; glasses askew, case file fallen to the floor. He'd been going out of his way to look after her on this trip…something he couldn't do in Las Vegas. At home, he'd brought her lunch from time to time and made sure she left at the end of shift when he knew she was overtired, but he was careful of appearances – aware that accusations of favoritism would unnecessarily complicate their lives. He didn't have to worry about that here. It was nice.

Smiling, she retrieved the folder from the floor and put it on the bedside table. When she tried to remove his glasses, he woke with a start. "Whuh?"

"Go back to sleep, Griss…it's late."

He yawned and stretched a bit, then sat up on the side of the bed and looked at her appreciatively. "So, are these towels any better?"

Sara stepped into his arms, "See for yourself."

Grissom rubbed his cheek on her towel clad belly. "Oh yes, much better." Still yawning, he held her in his arms and closed his eyes. When he remained still, Sara bent slightly and realized he'd fallen asleep. The vibrations of her laugh made him lift his head and gaze up at her owlishly.

Shaking him gently, she said, "Hey…Gil…ravish me in the morning."

"It's a date," he said sleepily.

And it was.

**Thursday, January 5, 2007 – 4:00 am – Metropolitan Police Department – Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

Horace Edwards was bored. The graveyard shift in the Street Surveillance Office was anything but exciting. The monitors he was supposed to be watching didn't show much at this time of morning. Still, you never knew. They'd caught a Kennedy on a DUI a few weeks ago…anything could happen.

Edwards had a few games he played with himself in order to stay alert. Counting hookers was one of his favorites. When he was assigned the Vermont Avenue watch, like this morning, he kept track of how many blondes, brunettes and redheads were out strutting their stuff. Since the feed was black and white, this could be a bit of a challenge. At least it kept him awake.

He also liked to keep track of customers, a surprising number of whom were recognizable. If he wasn't sure it would land him in jail, he might just forward a few screen shots to _The Washington Post_…or _The National Enquirer_. Not for the money, of course. No, it would be to watch the feathers fly. Oh well, it was fun to think about.

Movement on one of the monitors caught his eye. "Hey, Fred…The Regular is back…come look."

On screen, a middle aged man had just walked into the top of the frame. He was a sort of rugged looking Caucasian, light hair, confident stride…and no coat. It was 28 degrees outside. Edwards couldn't think what was up with this guy that he'd stroll around on the street in the middle of winter without a jacket or overcoat.

Fred Grey pulled up a chair. "That's him, all right. How many times has he cruised the block this morning?"

"Only once since I've been on…man, this guy is a machine," marveled Edwards.

Both men watched as the man went from girl to girl, chatting briefly but never staying long. They knew from experience he'd work the girls until he found what he wanted.

Horace frowned and scratched his head. "You know, I think I saw this guy somewhere else today…where was it?"

Fred took the joystick and zoomed in on the man as he crossed the street, still looking for the right girl. "He should be on _Ripley's Believe It or Not_…I've never seen anyone do so many hookers…uh oh, look…I think he's found one."

On the screen, the man offered his arm to a slim, dark haired woman, who cuddled up to him and practically pranced by his side. They walked out of the frame arm in arm.

Edwards checked his watch. "How long until he comes back? Hour? Half hour?"

Making a note of the time, Fred grinned. "Half hour if this is the first time you've seem him this morning. Ten bucks?"

"Deal," said Horace. "And an extra ten if he's changed his clothes."

The men shook hands and went back to their regular work, wondering idly why The Regular always changed outfits between women. Weird.

**Thursday, January 5, 2007 – 9:00 am – Quantico  
****

* * *

**

Jack Crawford entered conference room 1516 to find his Task Force already poring over stacks of case files. "Good morning, everyone. Sorry I wasn't able to get back out here last night."

One by one, faces disengaged from file folders to nod at the director. Agent Foster said, "We've separated the old material into individual cases which worked out to one apiece...well, Grissom took two: the Milwaukee Jane Doe and the first case from Duluth. We're going to present in about an hour. What do you have for us?"

"Would you set up the video system, William?" Crawford asked, taking a DVD out of his breast pocket and handing it to the younger man. "We've made an identification of the victim: Penny O'Brien, age 29…known prostitute, street name Bliss…we matched her prints in AFIS."

Foster opened a cabinet at the back of the room. A large screen descended from the ceiling and the lights dimmed. "What are we looking at, Jack?" Foster said as the disc engaged.

Grainy black and white surveillance video filled the screen, time stamped 6:00 p.m., January 3, 2007. "I pried this video out of DC Police Chief Chuck Davenport. It's from the area near the Sculpture Garden the evening of the murder." Crawford walked over to the cabinet Foster had opened and punched a few buttons on the control panel. "Let me fast forward to the relevant section."

When the film settled down again, the time stamp read 5:30 a.m., January 4, 2007.

A National Park Service van pulled into the frame. A uniformed man exited the driver's side and strolled around to open the rear gate, where he took out a hand truck. He then removed several heavy sacks marked Green Fire and placed them on the dolly.

Crawford said, "Green Fire Pellet Ice Melt is what the Park Service uses to treat the walkways around the Mall..."

Next, the man removed something wrapped in a tarpaulin from the van and set it atop the bags of ice melt. He casually wheeled the hand truck into the Sculpture Garden, wrestled the bundle into his arms and walked into Magdalena Abakanowicz's installation, _Girls_, over the ground cover on the left hand side. Setting his burden down on the sturdy plants, he unwrapped the body of a dark haired woman. Lifting her into his arms, he stood for a moment at the verge before tossing her among the little headless figures already standing there. The man stood for a few moments looking down at the woman as she lay before him.

Everyone in the room knew the last victim had been alive when brought to the dump site, but when the woman on the screen started to move sluggishly as if slowly regaining consciousness, they all gasped. Mason whispered, "Holy Mother of God."

"Jesus, Jack...is this going where I think it's going?" Miranda groaned.

"I'm afraid so," Crawford said quietly.

Grissom glanced at Sara, who was squirming in her chair next to him, grimacing in pain. Just as he was about to speak, Graham said, "Stop it, please. We don't need to see that." Gil looked up to see Graham nearly as white-faced as Sara.

Crawford paused the playback. "He folds up the tarp and takes it and the hand truck back to the van at that point, reloading the bags of ice melt into the cargo area. When he returns to the woman, he's carrying a wooden stake...from that snow fencing on the opposite side of the walkway, cutting it free with what are probably wire cutters. He kneels beside her, patting her face a few times as if to get her to focus. He pauses for a few moments…we speculate he is speaking to her because she shakes her head vigorously and tries to hold him off, but he positions the stake and uses the weight of his body to impale her. She struggles briefly then is still."

Graham, his eyes slightly unfocused, mused, "Then he walks toward the hedge at the back of the installation, removes something from his pocket and bends briefly...you can't see what he's doing. He hops the hedge and leaves the scene."

Crawford's eyes widened in surprise. "Yes, that's exactly what he does,"

Grissom leaned forward in his seat. "He impaled a cricket on a thorn in that hedge."

Crawford pulled a chair out and sat down.

Sara added, "There was a mouse impaled on a pyracantha thorn at the first scene. That one was natural, not planted by the killer."

Looking from Graham to Grissom, who both nodded, Crawford asked, "Another Shrike?"

"I don't know how...that detail was never released, Jack...but we have to consider the possibility," Graham said, reeling himself back in from that place horrors like this carried him. He took a deep breath, "It's unlikely this particular signature would repeat. I know Hobbs is dead..." _because I shot him on the stairs...emptied a magazine into him..._ "but there has to be a connection. I feel it."

And just like that, it was back...that thing he did. That thing Will had been running from for more than 20 years was crouched in the room like a cat. Grissom rubbed the back of his neck, forcing down hair that was standing straight up. He looked over at Graham who was staring at his hands. The man suddenly glanced at Gil, holding his gaze. That weird twinning he'd felt the first time he laid eyes on Graham was back, too. Then Crawford coughed and the connection was broken.

"I have one more thing to show you," Jack said quietly, pressing a few keys on the control panel. "We pulled this off the end of the video feed."

One frame filled the screen in front of the Task Force. The man in the Park Service uniform had been caught facing the camera only once.

Miranda murmured, "Culpepper."

**Thursday, January 5, 2007 – 10:30 am – Duluth, Minnesota  
****

* * *

**

At 66, Dorothy Culpepper had settled into her life, but the joy had gone out of it years ago. When she'd imagined her retirement, she'd seen it filled with children, grandchildren and the man she loved. Instead she was a widow estranged from her only child...and grandchildren? They were only ever a dream.

So, she volunteered at Easter Seals, ate lunch with the friends she had left, read books Oprah recommended, and watched Montel, Maury and Dr. Phil.

Dorothy thought about her day and realized she wouldn't be home for Dr. Phil today. It was a show about siblings and she didn't want to miss it. She had the phone in her hand, intending to call her friend Patricia to cancel their plans, when it rang startling her.

She managed to retrieve it from where it fell and answer on the fifth ring. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Dorothy Culpepper?"

"Yes."

"You have a collect call from Rick Culpepper. Will you accept the charges?"

Brow creased in concern, she said, "Yes...I'll accept the charges."

The operator said, "Go ahead, sir."

"Mom?"

"Rick...Rick, is that you? Are you all right?" Dorothy asked, hearing only faint static on the line. "Rick?"

"Dad said don't call if I was in trouble...and you know I never did...I never did."

Dorothy Culpepper had rarely heard her son's voice so small. He was all about big...big plans, big dreams, big ambitions...and a very big opinion of himself. After her husband's death, Rick had fulminated over the ineptitude of the local police and stormed out of town, swearing to solve the crime himself. But he hadn't and his calls came less and less often until they only came on holidays. She knew it was because he couldn't bear to fail...his father had taught him that...but the price he paid was high. Now, all her son had was his identity in the FBI and his sense of bigness. Not what she'd imagined for him at all.

Culpepper said, "Mom...you there?"

Shaken from her reverie, Dorothy braced herself for whatever reason had made her son call sounding so lost. "Your father isn't here anymore, Rick..."

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 11 to follow shortly._**


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary: **Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy **who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN **

**Friday, January 5, 2007 – 12:30 pm ­– Quantico

* * *

**

Miranda Robinson took a bite of her fish sandwich and made a face before setting it back on her plate. "You know, I think part of the initiation here is surviving the food."

Graham wiped his mouth but that did not remove the smirk he was wearing. "I tried to warn you, Miranda. The FBI Academy is landlocked...never buy fish in a landlocked state."

"Very funny, Bayou Boy. Even though the FBI thinks it is a kingdom unto itself, don't think I don't know we're in the state of Virginia, which has considerable coastline even if I can't see it out the window." Looking around the table at the rest of the Task Force, she said, "I'm going back though the line to find something edible...can I get anybody anything?"

Everyone was fine and conversation picked up as Miranda strode off.

Mason Robichaud said, "So it looks like we're just tying Rick Culpepper to the rest of the murders, eh? How long until we get a record of his movements for the time in question?"

Foster had just dipped a couple of French fries in ketchup and taken a bite. He raised a finger, then finished chewing. "Crawford will have the preliminary information this afternoon...the in-depth stuff will take a few days."

Grissom and Graham were both shaking their heads. Each caught the movement and smiled. They gestured in unison for the other to speak, getting chuckles from the rest of the group.

Miranda returned to the table just then. "Don't tell me...the twins went into their act..." she said as she set down an somewhat forlorn looking fruit plate. "What'd I miss?" she asked as she snagged a couple of grapes, popping them in her mouth.

Grissom spoke. "Something isn't right about the two recent murders...I...well, we..."

Graham interrupted, "We need to look at the evidence..._follow_ the evidence. We can't just assume it all points to Culpepper, despite what we've seen so far."

Chewing furiously, Miranda wiped her mouth. "And if it still leads right to Rick Culpepper? When will you be satisfied?"

"When we've examined all the evidence, Miranda," Graham said quietly.

Sara and Foster exchanged a look. Miranda carefully straightened her plastic ware. "Will, you know I love you, honey, but sometimes, you can be a major pain in the ass..._He did it!_ Rick Culpepper killed those girls...his DNA was found _inside_ them and we have film of him killing the last one. What evidence am I supposed to follow and where on earth do you think it's going to lead?"

Will Graham idly moved the remains of his Kung Pao Chicken around the plate with his fork. Sara noticed his jaw working: if Grissom did that it was not a good sign. She realized she was holding her breath when Graham met Miranda's glare. "I don't want a foregone conclusion to prevent me from hearing what the evidence has to say or make me overlook something important."

Shaking her head, Miranda grumbled, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were Crawford's new Golden Boy, bent on getting the old one off on two charges of murder."

The fork in Will's hand broke with a loud snap and the anger that flared in his eyes practically leapt across the table. "I am many things, Miranda, but I am not Crawford's Golden Boy...I am not Crawford's _anything_." He looked around at the other members of the team. "Excuse me...I'll meet you back in the conference room," he said, then stood and left the dining hall.

The rest of the team was silent, staring at Miranda. "That was uncalled for, Miranda…you know his history," Robichaud scolded.

"Oh, don't get all in a knot, Mason," Miranda said, embarrassed. She stood and picked up her tray. "If I hurry, I can catch him…" She looked at Foster, Sara, and Grissom, "I'm sorry, folks. I have a hot temper and a big mouth…not a great combination. I'll meet you in the conference room."

Sara watched her leave and turned back to Foster. "What was that all about?"

Agent Foster took a sip of his soda. "Dad would never have come out of retirement on the Dolarhyde case if Jack Crawford hadn't shown up in Florida with pictures of two murdered families. Nothing else but imagining a lot more dead people could have gotten Dad to leave Mom and me. What happened…after…well, Dad blames Crawford for that. They haven't spoken a word to each other in more than 20 years…until two days ago."

Grissom frowned, puzzled. "I'm surprised he agreed to be on this Task Force, then."

"Well, that took some doing and another trip to Florida…me, this time. I thought if he got back to work it would help…he's been holed up down there since Mom died…I didn't want to lose him, too." The younger man paused a moment and swallowed heavily before continuing slowly, "Jack agreed to keep his distance from the Task Force…for Dad's sake… but then we got that Sky Landing murder and all bets were off."

Sara reached out to touch Foster's arm. "It's not really Crawford he's mad at, is it?"

Foster shook his head. "No…he's furious with himself, but with that much anger there's bound to be spillover…Dad gave it all to Jack."

Mason checked his watch. "We need to think about getting back over to the conference room. We're scheduled to present in 20 minutes."

xxx

Graham had cooled off by the time he hit room 1516, running smack into Jack Crawford in the doorway. While Crawford mumbled something that sounded like an apology, Will muttered, "Today is just not my day."

The two men stood frozen for a few moments, staring at each other. Crawford looked away first, gesturing for Graham to precede him into the conference room. Walking to his spot at the table, Will picked up a folder and began to read, doing his level best to ignore his old friend Jack Crawford.

They hadn't been alone together in more than 20 years – since that morning when they thought Dolarhyde had gone up in flames along with his house. A lot had happened since then – much of it terrible – on both sides. Crawford knew he was the target for Graham's anger and he'd taken it on: the man was right…he _had_ gone to Florida willing to do anything, say anything to get Will Graham back. But he missed his friend and sometimes, he got tired of being the villain in the story.

"I heard about Molly, Will. I'm sorry," he offered quietly.

Graham didn't look up. "I got your card, thanks."

Crawford stood in the doorway, wondering what else to say.

Glancing up quickly, Graham said, "We got your flowers, too. Willy sent a thank you, I believe," then resumed his reading.

"I got yours when Bella passed," said Crawford, taking a seat at the table.

Will shut his eyes and closed the case file, holding it a minute before placing it on the table in front of him. Then he met Crawford's gaze. "Cancer is the worst. I'm sad to say I know what that means now. You took care of Bella to the end…it must have meant a lot to her to die at home." Twenty years of rancor evaporated when he looked up and saw grief still fresh in his old friend's eyes: he'd lost the love of his life, too.

Jack noticed the tears that started in Graham's eyes. Before he could say anything, Will was out of his chair. "Excuse me, Jack. I need to…" Whatever else he said was lost as he hurriedly left the room and escaped down the hall.

Miranda entered the room minutes later to find Jack Crawford studying his fingernails. "Have you seen Graham?"

"You just missed him."

As Miranda turned back toward the door, Crawford said, "He needed a break, Miranda. Stay until he comes back…whatever it is can wait, can't it?"

"You put your foot in it, too?" she asked.

"It's my special gift," he said tiredly.

xxx

The Task Force reconvened at one o'clock. Jack had corralled Agent Foster to help collapse the panels separating conference room 1516 from the layout room next door. He quickly folded them into a wall recess. When William had returned to his seat, Crawford took the floor.

"Thank you all for the time and effort you've put into reviewing these case files. Originally, it was our intention for the Task Force to evaluate these cases…we'd only recently determined them to be the work of a single perpetrator…we needed to build a centralized database first so we could then create a profile of the killer."

Crawford glanced quickly at Graham, who nodded and did not look away. "The two recent murders at Sky Landing and the Sculpture Garden have added urgency to this task: after a two year hiatus, our subject has stepped up his pace. We don't know what set him off or much else about him…what we learn from your case evaluations will draw us a picture. Given the depravity of the killings, I hope it's a clear one.

"I've opened up the room so we can lay out material from all the cases side by side. Unless you have objections, I suggest we begin with the first case and more forward chronologically."

As the Task Force transferred their stacks of files to the layout table, Crawford picked up the phone and punched a few numbers. "Jill? We're ready for you now," he said and hung up. "I'm having Jill Arthur join us...she'll transcribe your findings and develop a database reflecting all the cases."

Once the transcriptionist had settled with her equipment at the far end of the layout table, the presentations began.

Grissom said, "Guess I'm up first," as he opened a folder and placed several photographs on the table. The victim was shown in life and in death.

Gil said, "The first victim that we know of was Emily Harper, age 28, five feet seven inches tall, blue eyes, brown hair, weighing 120 pounds. Her nude body was discovered behind the Northern Rest Funeral Home in Duluth, Minnesota on September 16, 1997. It was pierced through the upper abdomen with an umbrella. The funeral director, Vernon Scarey, was parking his car behind the building when he noticed something he thought was a bag of trash in a landscaped area at the rear of the property. He approached the area and, when he realized he'd found a body, went into the building and called 911."

Pulling more photographs from his stack of files, Grissom set them out on the table next to the others. These were close up shots of the body. Words had been burned into the flesh of the young woman's abdomen:

_Judgment is coming _

_I have not forgotten _

"Vital response in the tissue around these burns indicates they were inflicted pre-mortem. Cause of death is listed as exsanguination from the damage caused to her liver when the umbrella impaled her body. There were no ligature marks or other injuries, though blood on the victim's hands and on the umbrella, later determined to be her own, indicate that she was conscious enough to try to save herself after she was left at the dump site. However, her blood alcohol level was .30, which may explain why the killer didn't need any other restraints. The rape kit revealed semen in the vaginal and anal cavities. No other foreign DNA was found at the dump site."

Grissom picked up one of the scene photos and pointed to something in the landscaping near the body. "You can just make it out here: there is a mouse impaled on a thorn in this bush…looks to be a species of hawthorn, probably a Cockspur Hawthorn or _Crataegus crus-galli_. That's the only variety I know that is hardy this far north…Zone 4, I believe."

Miranda, who was standing next to Sara, murmured, "Zone 4…is he kidding?" Sara smiled slightly and shook her head.

Graham asked, "Did they find a primary crime scene?"

Nodding, Grissom said, "Yes. The funeral home had been broken into and the umbrella taken from the Director's locked office. The Coroner believed the sexual activity and branding took place in the preparation room. He didn't think it was rape…clock exam on the victim was negative for sexual assault. Since the woman was later found to have been a prostitute, they ruled out rape and decided it was a John who got carried away."

Mason shook his head. "And just how did they reach that conclusion?"

Grissom sighed, irritated. "I have no idea. The elaborate disposition of the body ought to have said something else to them, but it didn't."

Will picked up the pictures and looked at them closely. After a moment, he said, "How about funeral home personnel? I guess there was no connection there?"

" Duluth police determined all employees and family members, as well as former employees were accounted for at the approximate time of death. The preparation room had been wiped down thoroughly and the only other prints in the room were the victim's, on an empty fifth of Southern Comfort."

Miranda coughed. "How many carried-away Johns have you seen wipe down a room that well?"

Grissom smiled slightly. "None."

Sara picked up the photo of the woman in life: a smiling dark haired girl flanked by a man and a woman with similar features. "Is there anything about the victim herself?"

Eyes softening as he watched Sara trying to resurrect Emily Harper, Gil said, "Actually, there is. The Harper family was well known locally. The victim's father owned a Cadillac dealership and made commercials featuring his six children: our victim was the youngest. Duluth had watched the older ones grow up in those ads. In 1972 the eldest, 14 year old Polly, was killed in a boating accident."

Grissom passed around photocopies of newspaper clippings. "Father, David Harper, was under the influence when he took out and crashed their ski boat: Polly and a friend were killed instantly. It caused quite a stir in Duluth and eventually the father lost the dealership. He killed himself on the first anniversary of the accident. When Emily was murdered, someone made the connection and the whole business was rehashed in the papers. Despite media attention, the murder was still thought to be the work of a John."

Remembering the DC scene, Graham asked, "Any footprints?"

Grissom shook his head. "The area between the funeral home and the dump site was paved. No footprints were noted or photographed."

Reluctantly, Sara put the photo of the victim down. "Pretty girl."

Graham said, "You know…they all were…our two recent ones, this one…the case I reviewed…and tall, they've all been tall…"

The others nodded and pulled out photos of the women in their cases.

Lined up on the table were seven photos of smiling dead women. Each one had been tall and slender with long dark hair. Miranda said, "Ted Bundy's victims all had a similar look. I guess this guy's do, too."

Graham glanced briefly at Sara. His gaze lingered on Grissom who looked away and frowned, saying nothing.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 12 to follow shortly._**


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30**, **scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**Friday, January 5, 2007 – 7:30 pm ­– Dale City, VA  
****

* * *

**

The waiter left their booth, orders in hand. The little group had again retreated to The Pines in search of real food. "I don't think I've ever reviewed that many homicides all at once…I feel like I need a bath," Sara said heavily.

Grissom, Graham and Foster nodded agreement. The afternoon's case presentations had been hard on everybody: Miranda and Mason had passed on the offer to go for a decent meal as neither was hungry.

"I'm not a fan of bulk case presentations, myself," Graham mused. "It's like fumbling around in a dark room, bumping into the furniture. It'll take awhile to sort it all out."

Sara grimaced, "Time we don't have."

Grissom started to speak, but she cut him off. "And please do not start with 'getting out ahead of him'…I know you and Will don't think Culpepper did it, but if he did, at least he's in custody and the killings will stop," she said as she rubbed her forehead, resting it for a moment on he heel of her hand.

Gil gazed at her so tenderly Graham almost had to leave the table. Instead, he began, "Sara…"

When she looked across the table at this odd man who looked so like Grissom, she was surprised at the depth of feeling she saw there. It was unnerving.

Will said quietly, "I know it's hard to sift through a mountain of dusty details when what you really want to do is find whoever did this, but you can't…you can't afford the luxury of that kind of passion. You'll miss something…and you'll hate yourself later."

Foster added, "Dad always tells me, _'when you want to go fast…go slow.'"_

Sara's head snapped up and she looked at William questioningly.

"What?" he asked, confused.

Grissom smiled. "She's looking at you because she's heard a similar sentiment from me."

Taking a sip of wine, Sara corrected, "Not _similar_…the _same_…you've said the _exact_ same words."

Graham and Grissom exchanged a glance and shrugged in unison, grinning. "Good advice."

Sara tried not to laugh. "Cut that out!"

**Friday, January 5, 2007 – 9:30 pm ­– Quantico****

* * *

**

Getting away from the compound and those old cases was a welcome relief, but they decided not to linger over coffee. Once the check was settled they were on the road back to Quantico.

"Shall I drop you and Sara off at the dorm?" Graham asked over the driver's seat.

Sara said, "I think we both want to look at those files again…compare notes from this afternoon. Griss?"

Grissom nodded. "William, will you be joining us?"

"I've had it. Once I eat, my mind turns to mush. If you'll drop me at my car, Dad, I'll meet you all in the morning."

It was snowing lightly when they piled out of Graham's rental, just starting to stick. "Watch yourself on the way home, Willy. No one here knows how to drive in the snow," he said leaning into the driver's side window.

William laughed. "This from a man who lives in Florida…" After he'd buckled himself in, he patted his father's hand braced on the door frame. "I'll leave a message at the motel to let you know I made it home." When Graham stepped back, the window purred up and Foster rolled slowly out of the lot.

It took a few minutes to wend their way into the building to conference room 1516. Mason Robichaud looked up from the notes he was making as they pushed through the double doors.

"Evenin' folks," he said pleasantly.

Grissom and Sara divested themselves of coats and scarves and Graham plopped into the chair next to Robichaud. "Find anything interesting?"

Mason ran his hands through his hair, rubbing lightly as if to wake himself up. "I was trying to put together an informal database…you know…similarities and differences."

Sara asked, "Where's Miranda?" as she seated herself.

Chuckling, Robichaud said, "She was working with me until she suddenly starting cursing Rick Culpepper…and you, too, Will. I think she even laid you out once, Grissom. Said she needed to clear her head so she could actually think about these cases. She went to find someone who'd let her into the firing range."

Graham sat back in his chair. "She's a hot one. I've never seen anyone so dogged on a case…and once that fire gets lit, she won't quit."

Mason smiled. "That's why she had to get out of the print lab and into the field. She got tired of cleaning up after she threw things."

Grissom took a seat and asked, "What have you got, Mason?"

When Robichaud turned his tablet so the others could see, Sara suggested, "How about you tell us and I'll write it on the whiteboard?"

Graham reached behind himself to grab a dry-erase marker Velcro-ed to the board's frame. He tossed it to Sara with a laugh as she walked over to the board, "Hey, isn't that Jill-person supposed to be making a database for us?"

Grissom arched an eyebrow. "Do you see a Jill-person in this room?"

Mason rolled his eyes. "Thank you, Sara…that's a good idea. OK, here's what I've got…" Swiveling his chair to face the board, notepad in hand, he said, "The most consistent feature in all these crimes are the impalements. All nine victims were impaled; six of the nine were alive at the time…"

"Wait…wait…let me get the victims names and dates written up here first…" Sara said. Mason handed her the tablet and she made a grid on the board with nine columns. At the head of each column were the date, name, and locale of that murder. Next she wrote _impaled_ in all nine columns.

Passing the pad back over to Robichaud, Sara stood, marker ready. "OK…shoot."

Mason ran his finger down the page in front of him, stopping about a third of the way down. "Eight of the nine victims were near a butcher bird larder visible in crime scene photographs. It's difficult to tell from the pictures whether these are natural or manufactured. We know the one in the DC case was planted, so some of the others may be as well. Clearly, this particular symbol is important to the killer…the one case without this feature is Mary Moss, 2004, Louisville, Kentucky."

While Sara was writing _butcher bird_ in the appropriate columns, Graham said, "You know, this killer may have picked up the shrike angle from the Hobbs case, but those killings were all stabbings…11 women over an eight month period…I think the impalements are this guy's real signature. He elaborated on the butcher bird piece…like he was taking on the bird's nature, somehow…" He shook his head. "I can feel it…right there…a connection…and I can't get it yet."

"Stabbings are fundamentally different than impalements," Grissom said. "Hobbs was a rage killer…his victims were savaged in moments. What was done to these women took a lot of time and patience…"

Excited, Graham said, "Exactly…whatever this guy's agenda is, he has a plan…a mission, maybe. That certainly speaks to the words burned into the bodies."

Robichaud said, "That was my next point. Messages were found burned into the torsos of seven of the victims. The other two were very decomposed, so that feature was missing if it was ever there: Jane Doe #11, Milwaukee, 2001 and Jennifer Simmons, Chicago, 2002."

As she was writing _message_ in the correct columns, Sara said thoughtfully, "As I recall, all of the messages were similar…variations on a theme. One was a quote, right, Griss?"

"Yes, the Sky Landing victim's burns were a corruption of a Thomas Carlyle quote: _Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice; but only accident here below. Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death."_

Considering the quote, his brow furrowed. "Justice and Judgment are repeated in the messages, as is _I have not forgotten_. You have to wonder who these messages are for...the system…a person…God? What's the wrong or perceived wrong?"

Mason thought a moment. "Messages of this sort…words burned into a victim pre-mortem…are unusual. I've been a coroner for more than 40 years. I've seen things written on bodies with markers, lipstick, cut into the flesh with knives and even a few brandings…but this is unique in my experience. And there's a lot of it. Most of what I've seen were single words…maybe a word or two. This is different."

Grissom nodded, "I've never seen anything like it either…how about you, Sara? Will?" Both shook their heads. "And it doesn't feel like a signature the way the impalements do…more like something he adds…"

"Like addressing a package," Graham mused.

Smiling, Grissom said, "Yes!"

"So, the victims were burned…transported…then impaled and left to die. That's rage…but of a completely different order of magnitude," Graham said, eyes unfocused, staring somewhere above their heads. "Manufactured and addressed like mail…you know, I think this is a combination of…what? Sex killings while seeking vengeance? Does the sex seem separate to you? Like he's doing two things…"

Grissom rubbed his fingers together unconsciously and stared at the table top, unseeing. "Stages…his ritual has distinct stages…and they're not _unrelated_ but…related more by the fact that they're part of the same crime rather than B follows A?"

Will slapped the table and pointed at Grissom. "That's it…there's a separation between the sex and the torture…Mason, none of these victims was sexually assaulted, were they? The sex they'd had was probably consensual?"

"That's right. The ones we have data on don't show evidence of rape…" Mason said, flipping pages to double check. "No…none of them appear to have been sexually assaulted and given that the DNA we have was in the vaginal _and_ anal cavities, that's significant."

As he continued to study his notes, Mason said, "Will, you mentioned the appearance of the victims this afternoon…they all have a similar look: tall for an American woman, with long dark hair. Victim ages range from 16 to 32 and height varies from 5' 7" to 6'. Eye color varies, too, so absolute height, age, and eye color are not as important to this guy as the women being generally tall with long dark hair,"

Sara coughed and added _tall_ and _dark hair_ to each column, avoiding Graham's gaze, and Grissom's, too, based on the prickly sensation running up her spine. Speaking toward the board, she said, "And they were mostly prostitutes, right?"

Grissom asked, "I'm sorry? Say again, please."

When she turned, Sara was bright red. Still avoiding Grissom's gaze, she looked at Mason. "The victims were primarily working girls, correct?"

Puzzled by her blush, Mason smiled slightly. "Six of the nine were prostitutes. Two definitely were not: Katherine Hughes, Indianapolis, 2002 and Madeline Chase, Cincinnati, 2005. Since we have no ID in the Wisconsin case, her occupation is still unknown."

Sara turned quickly and wrote _prostitute_ in six of the columns. _"Get a grip, Sidle…take a breath, calm down…don't lose your temper,"_ she thought. _"So, the victims are tall with dark hair like me…I'm not working the streets...what are they looking at me for?" _

While she was regaining her composure, Miranda strode into the conference room. "Look at you guys…busy, busy, busy…I am happy to report that my attitude adjustment was successful."

Graham leaned back in his chair. "Who'd you shoot?"

"You." Miranda sat and studied the board before glancing at Will. "I blew your butt off, Bayou Boy," she grinned. "Kind of hated to do it…it's your best feature."

For once, Graham was speechless.

Appreciating the slow smile that spread across Will's face, she nodded at the Sara's handiwork, "Nice chart. I thought that Jill-woman was working up a database?"

In unison, the others said, "Do you see that Jill-woman in here?"

Sara leaned against the wall, relieved that the tense moment had been broken. "Dr. Robichaud had already started working out similarities in the cases when we got back from dinner. It seemed like a good opportunity to brainstorm. I volunteered to put it up on the board because mine is the only handwriting that's readable," she said to a chorus of protests from men. "Well, it's true."

Looking over the top of his glasses at Miranda, Grissom said, "It is true."

Sara grinned. "Thank you."

"Now that you're done killing me in effigy, want to run the cases with us?" Will asked.

Putting on her glasses, Miranda grabbed a legal pad from the stack in the center of the table. After she wrote the date and time in the upper right corner, she grinned at Graham and said, "Let's do it."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 3:00 am ­– Metropolitan Police Department – Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

Fred Grey gestured to his coworker a few monitors down in the Street Surveillance Office. "Horace…Horace…he's here…The Regular."

"In the fucking snow…can you believe it? He's crazy chasin' pussy in the God damned snow," Edwards said, leaning back in his chair.

"No coat either…" Grey shuddered. "All that exercise he's gettin' must be what's keepin' him warm 'cause it is _cold_ out there."

Edwards slid his chair along the console to get a better look. "Not many chicks to choose from tonight…" As he watched The Regular do his thing – chatting up the girls – something kept nagging at him, making him frown.

Puzzled, Fred asked, "What's up with you? You look like you need to take a crap."

Shaking his head, he looked at the monitor once more. "That guy…_that guy_…there's something…"

Suddenly he jumped up and started pulling through the trash until he found that day's _Washington Post_. Throwing sections back at the can, he finally found the right one and held it up. "_This_ guy" he said, jabbing Rick Culpepper's mug shot. "They arrested _this guy_ for killing two District prostitutes. He's down at the city jail right now. It's him…The Regular."

Both men turned toward the screen. Though it was now snowing heavily, they could see the man in question had made his selection. Arm in arm, the couple strolled out of the frame.

Fred whispered, "If The Regular is in jail, who the Hell was that?"

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 13 to follow shortly_**


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30**, **scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**Friday, January 6, 2007 – 5:30 am ­– FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Horace Edwards called downstairs to the watch captain who, in turn, got Chief Davenport out of bed. The Chief came downtown in a temper that matched the terrible weather...until he reviewed the video. After a head count at the city jail, Davenport called every number he had for Jack Crawford before finally reaching him at home.

A courier was on his way from FBI Headquarters to the Metropolitan Police Department within 10 minutes (the front door this time). By 5:30 a.m., the same eerie images of The Regular cruising Vermont Avenue were flickering across a screen in the FBI AV Lab. Crawford stared open mouthed at the display. What he was seeing was just not possible, yet there it was: the same face, the same way of carrying himself…the gait was a little off, but if he didn't know better, he'd swear that was Rick Culpepper.

Crawford stood reluctantly, still studying the screen. "Thanks for your assistance, Ruben. Burn me a copy of that footage, will you? I'll be in conference room 236."

Taking a big gulp of coffee around a yawn, AV Chief Williams said, "Sure thing, Jack. I'll bring it up myself,"

Crawford paused in the doorway. "Sorry you had to drive all the way from Chantilly in conditions like this."

Williams pulled a DVD out of a cupboard above his head and inserted it in the drive. "Hey, all part of the service…Vienna isn't that much closer, Jack…you had to drive in it, too."

Crawford turned and headed off down the hall, calling back over his shoulder, "That's why they pay me the big bucks."

He could hear Ruben laughing all the way to the elevator.

xxx

Crawford sat in conference room 236 and considered his course in light of recent events. This new video threw the recent cases into disarray. Since Culpepper's arrest, the investigation had dropped out of high gear. Much of the evidence they had collected was through the lab but unreviewed.

Jack believed Culpepper had killed those women just like everyone else. Now he didn't know what to think. Chewing his cheek, he shook his head and sighed: he'd violated his own rule to let all the evidence speak. That Sculpture Garden surveillance video had shouted so loud, it drowned out everything else. They had to catch up…_he_ had to catch up. Fast.

Looking around at the stacks of reports on the Sky Landing and Sculpture Garden murders, he noticed a couple of new ones had been placed on the table during the night. He scanned one from the print lab but was so distracted it took a moment for what he'd read to register. Rubbing his eyes, he waded once more through the sea of words…tented arches…ridge detail…match percentages. No, he hadn't misread.

The prints recovered from the cricket at the Sculpture Garden scene were not a match to Rick Culpepper.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 6:00 am ­– Quantico****

* * *

**

Miranda, Mason, Graham, Sara and Grissom had spent the evening going over the old cases. One by one the group thinned: even Sara had given it up at 5:00 a.m., too tired to think. After Gil had seen her safely tucked in bed, he'd been drawn back to the evidence: something wasn't right and he couldn't figure out what it as. It was enough to drive him back across the compound in the snowstorm.

"It is really coming down out there…must be four inches on the ground already."

"You're back," said Graham.

Grissom took off his coat, shook off the snow, and joined Will at the layout table. "You're still here," he observed.

They stood side by side for awhile, sifting through photographs.

Each paused and thought a moment, then said, "We're missing something."

Graham laughed, "You know, that _is_ a little creepy…"

Grissom hadn't even noticed. He looked up, triumphant. "I've got it! Here, look at this," he handed Graham a photograph from the Sculpture Garden scene.

Will, took the picture: it was a shot of the footprints they'd noticed leading away from the DC victim to the barberry hedge at the rear of the scene. "I've seen this," he said tiredly.

"I know that…look again."

Graham blinked several times and attempted to study the image, then sighed heavily and handed it back to Grissom. "I can't see anymore. Just tell me…"

Setting the photograph between them, Grissom pointed at the shoe prints. "These prints…they're uneven…left side…right side…uneven depth and pressure. And it's not a function of the surface. There's something wrong with the way this guy walks."

Eyes wide, Graham pulled through the stack of photos until he found the ones from Sky Landing…one set of prints led into the scene and one set led out of the scene. He shuffled the images back and forth a few times before setting them down next to the Sculpture Garden photo. "When I examined these before, all I saw was evidence that our guy carried the woman into the scene…the prints leading in are so much deeper than the others…but you can see it here, too. Right side footprints are different than left side footprints."

Grissom walked around the table and picked through the photos from the 2004 Kentucky scene and the 2005 scene in Cincinnati, the only other cases with photographs of footprints. "These, too…definite difference between right and left shoe prints."

Sara walked into conference room 1516 just as Graham and Grissom were pinning the relevant photos to the wall. "Hey, guys…couldn't sleep," she said, shucking out of her coat and brushing snow from her hair. "What's up?"

She was not prepared for the twin expressions of shock on the men's faces. Grissom started to speak, but Graham beat him to it.

"What are you doing here?"

Sara frowned, confused, "I work here?"

Will shook his head and made a face. "No no no…what are you doing _back_ here…did you cross the compound by yourself?"

Surprised at the annoyance in his tone, she looked at Gil. He did not appear to be pleased to see her, either. "Well, yeah…"

"You need to be more careful, Sara," Grissom said quietly.

Finally it dawned on her. "Oh, come on, guys…you think the killer is out there, binoculars at the ready…stalking me? In the middle of a snowstorm? Don't be ridiculous…"

Her bluster was met by two sets of serious blue eyes. Anger flared automatically; she tried to keep it off her face, without much success if twin cocked eyebrows were any indication. Issuing internal orders to calm down, Sara took a deep breath. "Okay…okay…point taken… Now, what's up?" she said, indicating the pictures on the wall.

Judging that the moment was over, Grissom held out his hand and she took it, smiling shyly as she moved to his side. "We think we know what's off about these cases…the footprints aren't right."

Sara's hand snaked around Gil's waist, lightly rubbing his back. Leaning around Grissom, she grinned at Graham, "What did you guys find?"

Excited, Will nodded at the wall. "Look at these photographs, Sara. Tell us what you see."

Starting at the left, she looked at each photo carefully until she reached the end. When she turned back around, she was beaming. "Our boy's right leg is prosthetic."

Both men stood with their mouths hanging open. Slowly, they broke into identical grins. "That's it!"

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 6:15 qm ­– Somewhere in Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Candle light flickered on her skin, painting the flesh with a soft, buttery glow. Her thick dark hair was splayed around her, drifting over the edges of the stainless steel table in soft waves. The man stood studying her and the words he'd just burned into her torso:

_Justice cannot be denied._

_I have not forgotten._

Thoughts of their brief encounter sent shivers down his spine, making him ready…more than ready…to go again, but he frowned and shook his head. _No more fun._ It was time to concentrate on The Mission.

He really _ought_ to place this latest Messenger. That was the protocol, after all: put The Messenger in a place sure to be found quickly. But it was snowing like the Devil and even Papa wouldn't have made him go out in a blizzard. Maybe in an hour or two…he had the spot picked out already.

There really was no need to hurry now: she'd died before he'd initiated her.

That was the problem with hookers. They could be like rotten fruit…ripe and succulent to the eye, but spoiled and stinking beneath the skin. This one had been a junkie, hanging by a thread until the next John financed her next hit. He'd only just started to take what he'd paid for when she simply stopped. Dead.

Moving closer to the table, he reached out to caress her hair. It was pretty to look at but coarse and dead like its owner. Once again his mind wandered where lust had led him so often lately…what would Sidle's hair feel like? Silk, perhaps? And her skin would be smooth and…

The whores just weren't going to be enough anymore…it was time to make a change…an _upgrade_, if you will. A rough bark of laughter accompanied that happy thought.

His face slid into a leer as he plugged in his soldering iron once more. Not for a Message this time…more like graffiti. With few quick strokes it was done.

He admired his work with a sly smile. The loops on the S were especially fine. On fire now, he slipped into her cooling depths with thoughts of his next Messenger. When the crisis came, he didn't bother to roll off her, but dozed where he lay, clutching at a dream.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 6:30 am ­– FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Crawford stood to one side of the door as Helen Taylor unlocked the print lab at FBI Headquarters. "Sorry you had to come in, Helen."

The Print Chief had rarely seen the Director so stirred up. Normally impeccably groomed and dressed, Crawford needed a shave and his clothes looked slept in. She stripped off her coat, hat and gloves. "It's OK, Jack. Give me a minute," she said, walking around the room turning on various pieces of equipment.

Hanging by the door as if awaiting an invitation, he said, "These are the only viable prints we have, Helen. I need you to look at the print results personally…Christ, I didn't even know you could print a cricket."

"It's not the printing that's a problem…it's getting clear impressions from their tiny little feet." When she got no response from Crawford – not even a groan – Taylor stopped what she was doing and really looked at her old friend. Normally cool under the most trying circumstances, she'd never seen the man this stressed. "Jesus, Jack…I'm sorry…"

Holding up a hand, Crawford said, "Helen, this is very important and I haven't had enough sleep…please…can you just review the results?"

It took several minutes to do visual comparisons while rerunning the computer analysis. "These prints aren't a match, Jack. Rick Culpepper's prints are not on this cricket."

Crawford let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Run AFIS again, please."

Helen gestured toward the report, "But we already…"

Cutting her off, Crawford leaned forward, resting his hands on the counter, "Humor me, Helen. Run it again."

The exemplar print glowed on the right side of the computer screen as potential matches flicked past on the left. In less than a minute, the screen froze on a match.

"The prints on your cricket belong to," Helen paused, squinting at the name beneath the match print. "Justice Lark."

Crawford stood bolt upright and said to no one, "Who the fuck is Justice Lark?"

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 14 to follow shortly.**_


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30**, **scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**Honor and Justice**

_Cursed is the man who dies, but the evil done by him survives.__  
__Abu Bakr_

**February, 1960 – Duluth, Minnesota****

* * *

**

The rumpled little man stared across acres of desk, dumbfounded. "What do you mean you won't take them both? Our agreement was that you would take the twins in exchange for a $10,000 gift…so that I can build my church."

"They are not perfect, Mr. Lark."

Honor Lark hastily wiped his face with his handkerchief. "I explained that to you, Judge. The second child was breech and there was an injury during birth. Dr. Baker assures me he is normal in all respects and will recover fully."

"They are not perfect. I believe I have made myself clear, Lark."

Stiffening, he replied, "They are perfect in God's eyes, Judge."

"All the more reason for you to keep the injured child…so he may be closer to God." Sliding a thick, sealed envelope across the desk, Judge Roger Culpepper said, "Now then, there is $5,000 cash in this envelope. My nanny has already taken the healthy child home to my wife. You will, of course, take the other home with you to International Falls. I expect this will conclude our dealings, Lark."

"What am I supposed to do with a baby?" Honor Lark said, genuinely perplexed.

"Why, raise it, Mr. Lark. Congratulations. It's a boy."

**February, 1960 – International Falls, Minnesota  
****

* * *

**

Dolores Lark was thrilled to have a baby to care for, even an imperfect one. The boy was a light in her world and almost made up for loss of the child her husband had sacrificed for God.

Things had gone terribly wrong when she'd married Honor. Her family thought he was beneath her; they certainly did not share the same social position and there was the matter of his father's business, but she fell in love with the sensitive young man and his love of God. They were young – foolish enough to think love was enough. They soon learned that it was not.

Honor then worked for his father at Lark Memorial Apartments, the family's funeral home. The future had looked so bright. In fact, he fully expected to inherit one day; the mortuary had already been passed down through three generations.

The elder Lark expanded the business with branches in Cook and Chisholm around the time the young couple married. But directing three funeral homes so far apart was too much for Venture Lark – mounting debt forced him to sell controlling interest to competitor, Gerald Scarey, who had the bad taste to rechristen the chain Scarey-Lark Funeral Apartments. Venture stayed on to manage the International Falls branch, but Honor's plans to attend college for a degree in mortuary science died. He managed to keep his position as mortician's assistant, but it was a dead end job and the pay was dismal.

Scouring the Bible, Honor likened his suffering to that of Job and sought to prove his faith by suffering nobly. So began his travels down the stranger paths of piety. Dolores was an unwilling passenger on that road, watching the man she married disappear an inch at a time as circumstance thwarted his every ambition. Little by little she lost all connection with her family, particularly her twin sister, Dorothy. The occupants of the Lark home were at once feverish and despairing.

In February 1959, a minister unexpectedly missed a funeral service at Scarey-Lark and Honor filled in at the last minute. Afterward, everyone said he'd done a beautiful job. Believing himself led by God, Honor offered to preach funerals at the mortuary in addition to his other duties, thus launching himself in a new career. Venture was against it, but Gerald Scarey saw it as a potentially lucrative, chargeable service and encouraged the young man. Eventually, Honor was seized with the idea of founding his own church. Dolores prayed for a miracle.

Upon finding herself pregnant in June of 1959, Dolores thought the sorrow in their lives was about to lift. Honor had always loved children…she expected him to be thrilled with her news. And he was. There was even a remission in his religious mania. But when Dr. Baker let them know twins were on the way, Honor's pleasure began to wane. He studied the Biblical passages about Jacob and Esau with increasing anxiety, sometimes staying up all night reading scholarly interpretations of the story. He started mumbling to himself about betrayals and birthrights. As Honor deteriorated, Dolores realized she needed help and wrote to her sister. She had to tell someone she was afraid to bring children into their home.

Once close, the girls' lives diverged years previously. Dorothy had done much better with her marriage: an up and coming district attorney named Roger Culpepper who'd landed his first court appointment at 35. They traveled in the better circles of Duluth and were quite happy. With one little exception: they had no children.

While he was distracted with the internecine struggles of Isaac and his sons, Honor fell victim to something equally ugly in his own house.

Roger Culpepper loved his wife. It pained him to see her pine so for children…the ones who would never come now and the two little stillborn girls they'd lost. The deaths had hurt him, too, of course, but she was burdened with a sadness that never left her. He'd resigned himself to the situation when Dorothy showed him her sister's letter.

"_Twins on the way…" _he thought to himself,_ "Replacements."_

Children reckoned as nothing more than interchangeable parts…it said a lot about the man's character that such an idea would even occur to Roger Culpepper.

A little research showed Culpepper that the Lark family was good stock – well respected in the community despite Venture's uncomfortable profession and Honor's tenuous grip on reality. Culpepper decided that a judicious offer…a 'donation' to the building fund for Lark's church…might be just what he needed to get those babies. He was right.

Baby Boy Lark literally put his foot in it the moment he made his reluctant way into the world. Dr. Baker was mistaken about the rejected twin: the birth injury required multiple surgeries and eventual amputation of his right leg above the knee. Honor Lark never got his church.

Still obsessed with Jacob and Esau, Honor believed the child he'd been forced to keep…the younger one…had been robbed of his Biblically-precedented birthright. He named the child Justice and immediately set about teaching him what he needed to know to live up to his name.

Every night before bed and after prayers, he repeated one thing to the boy: a quote…a lesson…a promise:

_Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice; but only accident here below. Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death._

**August, 1966 – Duluth, Minnesota****

* * *

**

Justice Lark loved coming to Duluth. It was big and noisy; so much different than tiny International Falls.

He'd only been to the city a handful of times. The Easter Seals people made him a new prosthesis every year. Papa had brought him for a fitting last month and they were in town today to pick up his brand new leg. He looked down at his old one and smiled, _"Guess this is goodbye, Sparky,"_ he thought. _"Wonder what the new one's name will be?"_

Justy Lark was an imaginative child. He'd started naming his prosthetics when he was three (the first one was 'Buddy,' because, as he'd told his mother, _"That's his NAME")._ Dolores had indulged him and gone along with the game after warning him not to tell Papa. Fostering his imagination was just about all Dolores Lark could do for her boy; Honor Lark controlled virtually everything else in the house.

Their existence was Spartan. Every bit of money was earmarked for church work, sometimes leaving the family on the brink of financial ruin. Honor Lark's belief that 'the Lord will provide' was put to the test many times. On those occasions when the table was bare, Dolores and Justy endured long sermons about their faltering faith along with their hunger.

Still, the child flourished in his mother's warm attention and the two clung to each other, secret allies in Honor Lark's strange world. Justy had learned to be seen and not heard in his father's presence, except when he parroted scripture on command. At six, he didn't quite understand what he was asked to say, but he could recite it perfectly. Honor would smile at him then and sometimes give him a little card with Jesus or a saint on it. He liked the ones of the Holy Family best...where Mary and Joseph and Jesus looked so contented. He kept hoping he'd see those expressions on his parent's faces some day.

Mama and Papa never smiled at each other, more often arguing quietly when they thought he couldn't hear. Lately they'd been arguing loudly about drink. The only drinks he knew about were water and milk and cocoa and maybe a Coca-Cola once in awhile, but whatever Papa was drinking smelled bad. That must be it, because he always smelled like that when they fought.

The waiting room at Easter Seals was crowded and they'd been waiting a long time. Papa didn't like the delay; he kept muttering that their appointment was at noon and that the technician was over an hour late. Justy didn't mind. There were crayons and coloring books here…he could keep himself occupied for a long time, though it was hard to find a clean page to start on and many of the crayons were broken.

He was concentrating on staying inside the lines when he heard a soft, friendly voice somewhere above him.

"How would you like a brand new box of crayons?"

Reluctant to look up, he said, "Yes, please…" and added a few more strokes to his picture. When he finally did glance up, he looked straight into the eyes of a woman who might be his mother.

The two stared at each other long enough to catch Honor's attention, who stood and put himself between the woman and his son.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he hissed.

Dorothy Culpepper stuttered, "I volunteer here…uh…is this….is this…?" as she held out a brand new box of 64 Crayolas to Justice.

Before the boy could take them, Honor seized the box and placed it firmly back in the woman's hand. "We need nothing from you but to see your back."

Confused, the child only saw the prized crayons float from his grasp. "But Papa, it's a new box…can't I have the new box?"

Too late, he realized his error. Honor whirled and slapped him hard across the face. "You will not talk back to me, young man. And you had better keep hold of yourself."

Silence descended on the waiting room as waves of shock spread from the ugly scene. All eyes were on Honor; disapproval thickened the air. Justy struggled to hold back tears: not from the slap but from the loss of the crayons. He'd never had a new box of 64 Crayolas to open by himself.

Just then, the technician they'd been waiting for called their name. Honor snatched Justy by the arm, hastily pulling him to a standing position and, head held high, marched out of the waiting room.

Dorothy Culpepper whispered, "Oh, Roger, what did you do to those boys?"

**July, 1972 – International Falls, Minnesota****

* * *

**

Honor Lark had risen in the ranks at Scarey-Lark over the years. He was now assistant to Funeral Director Gerald Scarey. What this really meant was that he ran the International Falls funeral home in fact while Scarey retained the status and pay that went with the job title.

As ever, Honor sought to bear the injustice nobly as a gift to God. Dolores Lark had long since surrendered to her husband's unusual relationship with the Lord, happy the steady paycheck allowed them to eat and pay their bills.

Justice Lark had been helping out around the place since he could push a broom. Now that he was 12, Honor felt it was time for his son to learn the family business. To that end he insisted Justy come in every day after school to work with the embalmer. Like so many things in his life, this new idea of his father's was something to be borne…no matter how much he or his mother might object, once Honor's mind was made up, it had the force of law.

The general public tends to think of morticians as strange because on their discomfort with the profession. But most people in the business are like anyone else – in fact many feel called, providing a needed service in addition to comfort for the bereaved. There are a few oddballs, though, and Harold Scarey was one of them.

Gerald Scarey's third son was the only one to remain stuck 'in the back.' Vernon and Edgar had progressed to Funeral Directorships of their own, each running a branch office of Scarey-Lark in nearby towns. Harry never would. In fact the elder Scarey had tried him in the Chisholm branch and replaced him within a month because of customer complaints.

The generous souls of International Falls thought Harry was just…odd. Everyone else thought he was downright weird and it wasn't just his wall-eyed appearance or his father's penchant for unfortunate names. Harry Scarey made people feel uncomfortable. Women felt he was looking at them inappropriately…undressing them mentally or thinking God-knows-what as he spoke to them. For men it was less clear cut, but more than a few swore the hair on the backs of their necks stood up when Harry stared at them too long.

So Harry was left in the back at Scarey-Lark, pretty much to himself until Justice joined him in the spring of 1972. Until that time, Justy's jobs consisted of stacking chairs, sorting literature and stuffing envelopes, unpacking supplies…nothing directly related to preparation of the deceased. He'd seen corpses, of course, but only from a discreet distance and never before show time. Nothing that properly prepared him for Harry Scarey's little corner of the death business.

At first, Harry made an effort to behave appropriately. He'd seen the darker side of Honor Lark's anger more than once; he didn't want to draw fire if he could help it. But after awhile, it was clear Justy wasn't a carbon copy of the old man even though he could quote Scripture like a bastard, so bit by bit he opened the door into what he called his playroom, hoping he'd found someone to share it with.

Justice Lark came from a sheltered home. Even if he'd been able to overcome the family reputation, Honor discouraged friendships so the boy had no one to confide in but his mother. At 12, there were some things he couldn't share with Mama, and Papa would have beaten him if he'd brought up the subject of nocturnal emissions or masturbation. Despite his suspicion that he was going to rot in Hell, some things felt too good to give up…so when Harry Scarey started talking about sex one afternoon, he was all ears.

International Falls attracts a lot of tourists each summer; there are usually one or two boating accidents with fatalities. One such had just come in…a local girl, 15 year old Mary Elizabeth Flowers.

She'd been staying with relatives from out of town at the family cabin on Rainy Lake. First cousin Polly Harper was Elizabeth's age and liked to water ski – Mary Elizabeth was just learning – so they spent a lot of time pestering Polly's dad to take them out. On the fifth night of her stay, Mr. Harper agreed to take the girls around the lake one more time while there was still enough light. The half a case of beer he'd had that afternoon made him deadly on the water. Both girls had died when he'd crashed into the jump in the middle of the lake; he'd escaped with a broken wrist and enough guilt to last any man a lifetime.

Polly's body had been sent to Duluth, but Mary Elizabeth, being local, was sent to Scarey-Lark.

International Falls is such a small town, everybody knew one another. The Larks knew the Flowers and Justice had gone to school with Mary Elizabeth. He even had a little crush on her, but she was older and never gave him a second thought. This wasn't the first time he'd seen someone familiar at Scarey-Lark, but it was the first time the body of a peer had come in to be embalmed.

Harry was just unzipping the body bag when he noticed Justice hesitating in the doorway. "Gimmie a hand with this body, kid," he said, gesturing him over with his head. "Here, pull this off while I hold her up."

Justy obeyed, alternately averting his eyes and stealing glances at Mary Elizabeth's partially nude body...the curve of her buttocks, an expanse of thigh, the dip of her waist where it flared again at her hips. When the bag pulled free he lost his balance and fell on his ass.

"Jesus, kid, quit screwing around...get up here and help me."

"Sorry, Mr. Scarey," he said, scrambling to his feet. "What do you want me to do?"

"And stop calling me that... 'Mr. Scarey' is my father...I'm just Harry, all right?" When Justy nodded, he said, "OK, kid...hand me that file folder."

Lark turned with relief from the preparation table. He'd never seen a girl even close to naked, and Mary Elizabeth...well, he'd dreamed of her several times and beaten off often with thoughts of her...to see her now was at once sickening and exciting. He wanted to see what was under the modesty cloth she'd been shipped in. Shaking himself to banish those mental images, he grabbed a file and handed it to the older man.

Harry Scarey had been watching Justy for weeks now. The boy was quiet and did as he was told without question, but he couldn't hide his curiosity or his interest in their female cases. More than once he'd entered the men's room after Lark had left and detected the unmistakable smell of semen; the kid was jerking off in there. That was promising.

Noting the blush on Justy's cheeks and the way he was holding his hands in front of his crotch, Harry smiled to himself. _"The kid just might be ready."_ When he glanced at the file, he saw that it was for another case. _"Yep, this could be it."_

"Justy...calm down, son...she ain't gonna bite ya," he said, rounding the table and cuffing the kid on the shoulder.

Swallowing hard, Justy tried to relax. "Yes, sir...I mean, Harry."

"Get me a sheet from the shelf there, OK?"

"OK."

Harry said, "You ever seen a naked girl before, kid?" as they spread the sheet flat between them and covered Mary Elizabeth from the shoulders down.

"No, sir."

"No tits, no pussy...nothin'?" he said, arching an eyebrow and trying to catch Justy's eye.

Lark looked at the floor, blushing scarlet, "Uh, no, sir...er, Harry...never."

Harry lowered his voice, "But you want to, right?"

Something in that low question gave him confidence...looking up, he said, "Yeah."

Grinning, Harry swept the sheet away from Mary Elizabeth's body like a magician revealing a magic trick. "Well, kid, no time like the present."

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 15 to follow shortly_**


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30**, **scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**Honor and Justice – Part Two**

**January 1975 – International Falls, Minnesota  
****

* * *

**

Justice quietly let himself into the embalming room and went up the stairs to see if Honor was in his office. The place was empty except for Gladys, who answered the phones. If Honor followed his pattern, he wouldn't return until after his late lunch...or rather, after he'd knocked back a half a pint of gin at home. 

Unlocking the preparation room door, he entered Harry's private domain. Oh, it looked normal enough to the casual observer, but he was privy to what went on here. He knew there was an assortment of lubricants, sex toys, and condoms in the bottom right drawer of Harry's desk. He also knew this branch of Scarey-Lark used more Orifice Guard and Velva Massage Cream than all of the other branches put together, but since the orders were delivered to and distributed out of this branch by Harry himself, no one had ever noticed.

Nobody came into that room if either of them were there because Harry had painstakingly crafted the story that they could not work their magic on the deceased with any kind of interruption. And their preparations _were_ magic...the dead prepared at Scarey-Lark in International Falls were much as they were in life, especially the women. It was remarkable...and a great comfort to the bereaved. They would not have been so comforted if they'd known the expert makeup applied to the exposed skin of their loved ones included attention to other areas where most women never wore makeup.

Unlocking the closet next to Harry's desk, Justice let himself in to the video room. Harry had just set it up: this used to be home to a considerable collection of 8mm movies, but Harry was a bit of a gadget geek...he was playing around with video now.

Justice queued up the tape he wanted and settled in one of the two soft chairs situated in font of the monitor. His right hand felt unerringly for the lubricant stuck in a pocket on the side of the chair. Cock in hand, he watched himself onscreen with a recent favorite...sadly, his liaisons were always brief...but this one had been sweet and untried...a lot like Mary Elizabeth, his first.

The strength of his rhythm increased rapidly. It didn't take long...it never took long...to reach climax. Wiping his hand on the paper towels he'd placed in his lap he got up, restarted the tape and began again. By the time he was really spent, his flesh was raw and he was wishing for a fresh one in the cooler instead of this pale imitation on the screen.

Tucking himself away carefully, he straightened the room, rewound the tape and locked it back up in the cabinet. Satisfied that all was in order, he started to leave. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror on the back of the door he looked quickly away, hating what he saw reflected there.

He was sick...he knew it. This was all wrong. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't stop. That fucking Harry. It was him...he'd started it all. Thoughts of his father drifted across his consciousness and he felt worse. He should be concentrating on The Mission.

Out of nowhere, anger bubbled up inside. "The _Mission_. All he can think about is the God damned _Mission_."

Turning on his heel, he reversed his steps and set up the video one more time. It was more than two hours before he was exhausted enough not care about The Mission or anything else.

Once he'd locked up the preparation room he went upstairs to catch a ride home with Papa.

**May 1978 – International Falls, Minnesota  
****

* * *

**

"But Papa, I have a full scholarship." 

Honor Lark looked at his son standing before him, inches away from being defiant, and his fists clenched in his lap. "You know what your destiny is, Justice. From the day you were born, God's hand has been drawing your path in front of your feet... '_Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed...'"_

Disappointed and sick to death of his father's obsession, Justice stood him down. "_Your_ destiny, Papa...God has nothing to do with this. I won that scholarship..."

Honor stood, shouting in his son's face, _"'there is no justice; but only accident here below.'"_

Covering his ears, Justice shouted over Honor's yammering, "Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!"

But Honor raised his fists, knocking the young man to the ground. He intoned,_ "'Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two...'"_

Blood poured from the boy's nose where his father had struck him. Rolling to his side, he thrust his prosthetic limb hard into Honor's knees, dropping the man like a stone. Coughing on blood and spit, he said hoarsely, "I'm going to make my own life...as far away from you as I can get." Standing heavily, wiping his nose on his sleeve, he looked down at his farther. "I'm done with you and your fucking crazy God."

Honor watched as his son, the focus of his disappointment and his rage, stalked out of the room. He mumbled, "'_some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death.'" _When he got back to his feet, he hobbled to the window and shouted at the boy disappearing down the road, "You must not forget! Never forget!"

**February 1979 – Duluth, Minnesota  
****

* * *

**

An exhumation in a Duluth criminal case revealed 'unusual' treatment of the female decedent: the corpse's genitalia, abdomen, buttocks and thighs had been carefully made up. Definitely not ordinary mortuary practice. The body had been prepared by Scarey-Lark Funeral Apartments by none other than Harold Scarey. 

Detectives from Duluth were dispatched to International Falls to question Harold, whose nervous behavior only succeeded in making them pursue a search warrant for the funeral home. Things really fell apart when they searched the playroom; Harry confessed when they discovered his cache of videotapes. Harold Scarey was arrested for abuse of a corpse in the Duluth exhumation case, additional charges pending examination of the video evidence.

Honor Lark was, of course, present when this occurred. Once home, he told Dolores about the uproar and public relations nightmare for Scarey-Lark, babbling on about this new test from God. When she realized that Harry could somehow implicate her son in order to deflect the full weight of his crimes, she waited until Honor was at work and called her sister. She begged Dorothy to use her influence with her husband in order to protect Justice.

Dorothy explained it all to Roger over dinner, who managed to examine the evidence against Harold Scarey, including a few videotapes, over the next several days. Imagine his surprise when Harry wasn't the only one on film. Fearing his connection with Honor Lark would be revealed (and cause all kinds of questions he would rather not have to answer because of the unorthodox 'adoption' of his son), Culpepper took steps. Two leg breakers of his acquaintance were sent to fetch the Lark boy from college.

A panicked and confused Justice Lark stared across acres of desk at Judge Roger Culpepper, not realizing his own father had sat in this same chair almost 20 years ago while his mother held him in her arms out in the waiting room. "Do you have any idea why you're here, you little bastard?"

Frightened, he said, "No, sir."

"Had any letters from home recently?" Culpepper said with a sneer.

"No, sir. I've been out of touch with my family for two years. Ever since I went away to school."

"I guess you're not reading the papers, either?"

"No, sir."

"Well, then let me bring you up to speed…in August we had a murder investigation that required we exhume a body in International Falls…you are familiar with International Falls?"

"Yes, sir…of course."

Culpepper went on. "The body was that of a young woman…a young woman who was prepared for burial at Scarey-Lark Funeral Apartments…you recognize that name, don't you?"

Justice Lark's heart rate sped up…_no, it couldn't be_…"Yes, sir…my father works there."

"Ah, we're making progress. When the coroner examined this body, imagine how surprised he was at the 'special treatment' she'd been given. You do know what I mean by 'special treatment'?"

Justice went pale.

"I'll take that as a yes. Well, 'special treatment' of a corpse is illegal in this state _and every other fucking state and country in the world_…tell me you at least know that much," Culpepper said, voice rising as his anger swelled.

Justice swallowed several times but said nothing.

"I asked you a question, asshole. Speak up!"

"Ye…yes, sir."

Contemptuous, the Judge said, "Good…so you're not completely stupid. We sent a couple of detectives to talk to the embalmer at Scarey-Lark in International Falls who is….?"

Lark's face went completely white.

Culpepper stood and shouted, "ANSWER ME!"

"Ha…Harry…uh…Harold Scarey."

"Harry Scarey…and do you know what Harry Scarey told us? He told us all about his 'playroom.' Of course, he didn't _really_ get going on his confession until we found the video tapes."

Justice murmured, "Oh, my God…"

Culpepper sat back down in his big leather chair. "You would do well to pray, young man…because I've seen some of those films…I've seen _your_ sorry ass on those films."

Justice said nothing, just bowed his head and waited for the judgment he'd known was coming since he was 12 years old.

"Feeling randy today, jerk wad? Turned on…wanting a little _dead pussy_ to take the edge off?"

The boy managed, "No, sir."

"So, why do you suppose you're here, now that I've caught you up on the news from International Falls?"

It was a moment before Justice could make himself say, "You're going to put me in jail."

Culpepper shouted, "I should put you UNDER the fucking jail, you little creep, or bury your ass so you can have all the dead pussy you want…away from decent people. I have enough evidence to put you away for a long, long time."

"I understand," Justice whispered.

"But I'm not going to do that. Do you know why?" Culpepper's tone was deadly. When the boy made no sound, he turned a photograph on his desk around so that Justice could see it. "Look here…see this? THIS is what a good family and proper upbringing can do for even such weak genetic stock as yours…"

Justice looked up to see his own face…what could have been his own face…smiling at him from a graduation photograph. His brow furrowed and he dared a glance at the judge.

"I entered into a pact with the devil when I met Honor Lark. He tried to sell me two infant boys 20 years ago and I, being goodhearted and a fool to boot, took one. The right one, apparently, because…well, look how you turned out."

Still confused, Justice said, "Papa tried to sell you…?"

"Oh, yes, Honor was on fire to build a church and he thought $10,000 would do it. That was his price for the both of you. Of course, I felt very sorry for your mother…poor Dolores…married to that lunatic…she begged my wife, her sister Dorothy…to take the children. But I knew when he brought you here…you with your bum leg…that you needed to stay with the damaged side of the family, so I rescued your brother and gave him a decent life."

This was simply too much to take in…his guilty secret plus all this about Papa _selling_ his twin…he was a _twin_? Justice could do nothing but stare blankly at Judge Culpepper.

"I am protecting my own now. I cannot allow your sorry face to be splashed all over the news because of this sick 'hobby' of yours. I won't have it. YOUR taint is not going to hurt me or my family, especially my son who has the misfortune to look like YOU. Harold Scarey has pleaded guilty for his crimes and agreed never to mention your name in exchange for a suspended sentence…he was so happy to escape jail time I think he would've sucked off the Devil himself if I'd asked him to.

"YOU are going to disappear, shithead. Videotapes that could put you in prison have somehow been 'lost,' so you will not be prosecuted. However, those films will be 'rediscovered' if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone. Your job is to shut the fuck up and stay as far away from me and my family as possible. Do I make myself clear?"

Justice's eyes were wide. He said nothing.

"I asked you a fucking question. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?" Culpepper roared.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and one more thing…the provost at St. Cloud University is a personal friend of mine. I'm sorry to report that your scholarship has been revoked. He has generously returned your things to International Falls and asked me to say that you are not welcome on his campus. Now, get the fuck out of here."

Justice nodded dumbly, not quite understanding the implications of all he'd just heard. He managed to get to his feet and walked out the door, into the black hole that had suddenly become his future.

The bus ride from Duluth to International Falls took just over five hours, plenty of time for Justice Lark to think about his chat with Roger Culpepper and look at his life with new eyes.

He was a _twin_? His identical had been _sold_ to Judge Culpepper?

Finally, Honor's obsession with Jacob and Esau, birthrights and betrayal started to make sense. As much sense as anything his father went on about made sense. And that quote…that fucking quote he'd heard every damned night since he was born…that started to make sense, too.

_Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice; but only accident here below. Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death._

Justice delayed…it hit him then…_he_ was supposed to be Justice Delayed.

Well, leave it to the venerable Honor Lark to be passive in this whole mess…and train up some Biblical assassin to right his wrongs. If the man had ever had a spine he would have told Gerald Scarey to shove his shit paying assistant directorship…he would have packed up his family and gone somewhere else…anywhere else and been hired as a funeral director in his own right.

But no, he stayed in International Falls groveling to a God who'd never given two shits about his _noble_ suffering…SOLD one of his children and tormented the other, all for some crazy idea about retribution. It was insane…it was all insane…and he'd never had a chance.

Something about finals crept into his thoughts then and it was all he could do not to cry. His ticket out…his scholarship…gone. It was Harry's fault…and Papa's fault…and maybe his fault… What was he supposed to do now?

"_Shut the fuck up and stay as far away from me and my family as possible."_

Justice winced, remembering.

The bleak winter landscape rolled by outside the bus window, the life sucked out of it…barren and dead. There could be no more perfect mirror for Justice Lark than the miles of nothing that skated past his eyes.

Honor Lark had been drunk for days by the time Justice arrived home; he'd lost his job and his reputation in one fell swoop. The scandal at Scarey-Lark had never hit the papers or been reported on any of the local affiliates, but news like that always gets out. Rumors were wild in International Falls, worse (if that is possible), than the truth. Gerald Scarey had closed the International Falls funeral home and was in negotiations to sell most of his branch offices. His best hope was to escape with his shirt.

Harold Scarey was said to have left town in the middle of the night for parts unknown: in actuality, he'd been sent to stay with relatives in Mississippi. It wasn't long before he wished he'd opted for prison. The southern Scareys were not happy to see him.

Justice knew as soon as he got off the bus that his part in the scandal was being whispered in town. Gloria Webb, who ran the newsstand at the bus station and who had always been friendly before, looked at him like he'd grown a third eye and did not return his greeting. Frank Gates, the drunk who ran the only cab in town, would not give him a ride, forcing him to walk all the way home in the three degree weather. Even Billy Phipps, who was more or less the town idiot, laughed when he passed. It was going to be much worse than he thought.

He let himself into the house and ran straight into Honor, who was drunk and screaming at Dolores.

"It is your lack of faith that has caused God to test me further…it's your fault!" he said, clubbing the cowering woman with his closed fists. "I have led a righteous life. It's you…you and your pitiful faith that has ruined me!"

Dolores cried from beneath the shield of her arms, "Honor, please…you're drunk…"

When the door opened, Lark whirled and stumbled. It took a moment before he recognized his own son. "And you! My own flesh…you have betrayed me as Jacob betrayed…"

Before he could really get going on his tirade, Justice clocked the man on the jaw, knocking him to the floor like a bunch of rags.

"Mama, are you all right?" Justice said, helping her up.

Weeping, Dolores clung to her son. "Justy…thank God…thank God you're here."

Once he had her seated on the couch, he handed her a wad of Kleenex and said, "God has nothing to do with this, Mama."

Dolores stared wide-eyed at her son. She knew…somehow she knew their shameful secret was out. "Justy…we had to…Papa was trying to build his church and we really needed…"

Justice interrupted. "Don't even start, Mama. You let Papa sell my brother and he would have sold me if I hadn't had this fucked up leg."

Scowling, she scolded, "Don't curse, Justy…you know I don't like that…"

All of the frustration and rage from the last 12 hours bubbled up in Justice's throat. "What is _wrong_ with you? I know Papa is fucking crazy but _WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU_? Do you know where I've been? I've just seen His Honor Roger Culpepper…my uncle, apparently…who knows all about this sorry mess at the funeral home. He's going to forego prosecuting me so none of the spatter will get on _his_ precious family, namely my own twin brother _that I never even knew I had_…oh yeah, he's letting me off for the one time only price of MY SCHOLARSHIP! Everyone in town knows…that jackass Phipps laughed at me…followed me for a good half mile laughing and pointing…Jesus, Mama…and you're worried about cursing? Why weren't you more worried about raising a child around Papa…you knew he was crazy…you begged your sister Dorothy to take us because you were afraid to bring us home, yet you allowed Papa to try to SELL US? Were you out of your mind, too? How could you do that? How could you _do_ that?" Out of steam, Justice sank onto the couch next to his mother.

"Oh, Justy…I always wanted to tell you the truth but I was overruled…I tried to protect you…"

Justice shook his head. "Mom…please…don't…"

"But you don't understand. Roger was supposed to help you. Dorothy promised me."

_"WHAT?!" _

"When your father came home after that horrible boy confessed to police, I was afraid for you…afraid he would try to tar you with the same sick brush to save himself. So I called Dorothy…" Dolores looked at her son's incredulous face then down at her lap where she was compulsively shredding a lump of Kleenex. "She promised me Roger would help you…look out for you no matter what kind of lies that Scarey boy told about you. I know you're innocent, Justy. I was only trying to help."

"Christ Almighty, Mama…" Justice rose tiredly and walked toward the kitchen.

"Are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich or warm up something," she asked worriedly.

Anger and despair warred in his eyes. He paused in the doorway and looked back at his mother, face already purpling from the beating Honor had given her. She had no idea…truly…the woman had _no idea_. "I'm going to steal one of Papa's pints of gin and get quietly drunk."

Dolores's face crumpled and she buried her face in her hands. "I'm sorry, Justy…oh, my God, I am so sorry…your scholarship!"

Justice walked slowly back to the couch to sit beside his mom. When he took her hand in his she wept harder. The weight of grim reality crushed the last of his reserve and tears finally came in a rush.

They both cried for a long time.

Some time later, Honor Lark woke up on the floor of his living room. Dolores and Justice had long since made their way to their beds. Rubbing his jaw, he thought, _"Miserable little bastard…should have exposed him between here and Duluth 20 years ago."_

Still drunk, disoriented, Honor was seized with some vague idea that he was needed at work. He took a fresh boutonnière from the fridge and pinned it carefully to his lapel. Taking a new fifth of Gordon's along for company, he wandered out into the night.

Earlier in the day, someone in town might have seen him and brought him home. But International Falls is tiny: at two o'clock in the morning with the wind whistling at 20 miles per hour and temperatures hovering around zero, the only living thing that saw him was the deer he passed on the way into town. By the time they found him the next day, sitting on a bench in the town square, lightly dusted with snow, Honor Lark had frozen to death.

Many said (privately, of course), that it was a shame Harold Scarey had had to leave town; he'd have been able to do something with the body. He could make them look so _natural_.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 16 to follow shortly._**


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30**, **scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 8:00 am – Reagan National Airport – Alexandria, VA****

* * *

**

Dorothy Culpepper had never flown before and she was frightened out of her wits. The flight from Duluth to Washington was so turbulent she'd closed her eyes and prayed the whole way, certain her prayers alone were keeping the plane aloft.

She was in the middle of a Hail Mary when she felt a soft hand on her arm. "Ma'am…_ma'am_…do you need assistance?" asked a worried looking flight attendant.

It took a moment for Dorothy to unclench. When she glanced at her hands, she saw the impression of her rosary on her fingers from where she'd gripped it so tightly. "We've landed?"

Relieved to get a response, the younger woman answered, "Yes, ma'am…are you all right?"

"If we're on the ground, I'm fine." Dorothy quickly patted her hair in place and unbuckled her seatbelt. As she rose, the flight attendant offered her hand, smiling. "Do you have anything in the overhead compartment? I can get it down for you if you like."

"Just an overnight bag and a briefcase."

Luggage in hand, Dorothy Culpepper wended her way through the airport, stiff backed and purposeful, to the taxi stand outside. Despite the overnight snow that had choked the roads around Washington, a cab was instantly available.

The Red Top was old; a flashy crown air freshener on the rear deck did little to cover evidence of the thousands of other passengers who'd ridden before her. Frowning, she said, "Take me to the FBI, please."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 8:15 am – Quantico****

* * *

**

Sara and the twins had been going over the new footprint evidence for hours. Whether this pointed at an accomplice, a perpetrator or both was still the subject of debate.

Grissom poured the last of some really poisonous coffee left over from the day before. "There were no other footprints at either of the recent scenes, Sara. There are three possibilities." He counted them off on his fingers, "One: that Culpepper is the sole perpetrator, footprint or no footprints. Two: that Culpepper and an accomplice are responsible for these crimes. Three: that a third person as yet unknown committed these crimes and has gone to great lengths to implicate Rick Culpepper…and given the new evidence I think this is most likely, despite the Sculpture Garden footage…"

Graham grabbed a cup, then tipped the pot to peer inside. He spoke over his shoulder. "Sara…what's your theory?" Gesturing at Gil's cup, he asked, "Is that the last of the coffee?"

Grissom made a face after one taste and handed over his cup. "Here, you can have this."

"Thanks." Will took a sip. "Sara? Your theory?"

The Las Vegas CSIs exchanged a look and a grin. Sara asked, "How's the coffee?"

"Good…good…" Graham said absently as he sat back down in his chair, waiting for her to speak.

Sara started, "Culpepper's semen was _inside_ the last two victims…you can't dismiss DNA evidence because of some footprints."

She paced as she talked, pausing to look at the photos pinned to the wall. "The jury will think Culpepper was limping to change his gait or, even if they buy the accomplice theory, they are still going to think DNA is more persuasive than footprints and want to bury Culpepper _and_ the possible accomplice for these murders."

She took a deep breath as she continued to study the board. "OK, maybe I can…"

Gil interrupted. "We're assuming that Culpepper _has_ both of his legs…do we know this for certain?"

William Foster pushed backwards through the double doors just then, arms laden with fragrant bags from Panera and fresh coffee. "Good morning…Dad, can you give me a hand here?"

All three went to help divest William of his burdens. "I have all kinds of breakfast stuff in here…have you been here all night? Where are Mason and Miranda?"

Sara unloaded the bags, snagging a still-warm egg and cheese sandwich while handing another to Grissom. "Mason and Miranda went to bed around three o'clock."

Graham distributed coffee all around and turned to his son with a wry smile. "Tell me, Willy. You know Rick Culpepper…better than any of us…you've worked with him, trained with him…?"

Puzzled, William looked from face to face. "There's been a break in the cases?"

"Just answer the question, son…you know Culpepper fairly well?"

'Sure…why?" he asked cautiously.

Graham grinned at Grissom and Sara, then back at Willy. "How many legs does Rick Culpepper have?"

Foster frowned, confused. "Two?"

Grissom turned serious. "You're certain? He has _two_ legs?"

"Of course, I'm certain…you've seen the man…how many do _you_ count?"

Sara grinned and shook her head. "No, no, no…William, we think someone with a prosthetic leg was present at the crime scenes. Are both of Rick Culpepper's legs real…natural limbs?"

Understanding rose in Foster's eyes and he nodded vigorously. "Yes."

Suddenly his father and the Las Vegas CSIs were all talking excitedly, explaining the new evidence and what it meant to the investigation. Facts and figures came hurtling at him like a swarm of bees, intent on forcing their way into his head.

The four were crowded around the photos pinned to the wall when Jill Arthur entered the room. "Excuse me…_excuse me_…sorry to interrupt. Agent Foster, Mr. Crawford is on the phone…he's asked to speak to you…something about new fingerprint evidence."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 8:15 am – Somewhere in Washington, DC****

* * *

**

_Flesh…warm yielding flesh…beneath his fingers. "Oh, Mama, hold me tight." And she does. She looks down at him with love, her dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders and around him: a silken enclosure to keep them safe. _

"_You must never tell Papa that I let you sleep with me when you have bad dreams, my love." _

_It is always the same and never the same, for each night that he's there the fear dissolves, replaced with warmth and soft caresses and murmurs of comfort. He loves it here…he has always been here…he longs to go back…_

_Why is it snowing? The brown silk curtain is withdrawn and he is naked in front of his father. They're outside in the snow and Papa turns away...walking so fast he can't keep up. All he can see is the blue of his overcoat retreating before him. He's leaving the boy behind… "Papa…I'm sorry…don't leave…please…"_

_Papa whirls, hair wild with static and ice. "Will you fulfill your promise…your DESTINY? Justice? Where is the Justice?"_

_And the boy cries, "I will, Papa…anything…I'll do anything…I'm right here!" The man walks on and the child is left behind._

_Bitter cold. It stings. Sleet burns his face and body as he runs to catch up, but he stumbles into the drifting snow. He's falling…too fast…too fast... "Catch me, Mama. Papa? Oh Jesus…catch me. I don't want to die!"_

_But it's warm now and he's floating…the silken curtain is just beyond his grasp. Blue and shifting in the light like a live thing. So beautiful. Letters swim into view. S. I. D. L. E. It is important…this sidle…he strains forward with everything he has, the tips of his fingers barely grazing his prize. Laughter echoes in his ears…light and lovely and welcoming. "Mama?"_

_That sense of floating slowly fades, leaving him on his feet staring at the back of a young woman as she walks away from him. "Wait…please…I have to…" She turns slowly with half a smile, gesturing with her head that he should follow, but he can't make his body work. Every step is like walking through molasses…he cannot reach her. "Don't leave me…"_

_The blue of her garment starts to ripple, making the letters suspended there shimmer and change. Some transform into birds, leaping into the air and stabbing straight through him. The rest reassemble into a new word: L.I.E.S._

_Oh, his life is so full of lies…the air is thick with them. He can't breathe and the lies are suffocating and his eyes slam shut against the darkness. _

_Something like the sun shines on his face. Warily he opens his eyes, blinking back tears in the brilliant light. The woman is back and the captivating blue is the fabric of her jacket, rising and falling over her ass as her long legs step carefully around the tiny bodies…headless bodies standing stock still at attention… She turns to him and holds out a hand. "Come with me…" He can't hear her words but can read her lips…_

_Suddenly he is in his rooms and safe. She is here. This one isn't afraid…her look is clear and strong and it will be so good, so, so good to have justice come with this one. His cock is twitching and eager…more than ready to split her… and she is suddenly warm and naked beneath him and her screams aren't distracting they way they've been with the others. No, wait…_

_She isn't screaming. She's singing…not words, just an erotic song like the rush of wings, urging him to go faster, deeper until he feels the beat like thunder in his chest…and he's pumping into her, coming into her…_

Justice wakes as he feels himself come inside the girl he lost the night before. He groans into her lifeless neck. Rigor is just starting, and the smell…he'd better clean up while he can still manipulate her body easily.

He can't stop shivering as he putters around his playroom, assembling what he needs to turn this lifeless body into A Messenger. Pausing to pull on a robe, he checks the nearby thermostat, shoving it up to 80. "Warm…have to get warm."

A slow smile slides across his face. Sidle will be warm and he will make her last a long, long time.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 8:15 am – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Jack Crawford left Helen Taylor's print lab with a new set of printouts tucked under his arm. "Justice Lark? Jesus…"

The disk AV Chief Ruben Williams had burned of the DC Street Surveillance footage was sitting neatly on the keyboard of his laptop. Crawford didn't even sit down before he popped in the disk and started the video.

Once again Crawford stared open mouthed at the screen as he sank into his chair. How was this possible? _That_ was Rick Culpepper. But it couldn't be: Culpepper was in a cell at DC City Jail. When the film ended, the new fingerprint report was in his hand demanding attention.

Feeling only slightly crazy, he checked the results one more time. Not Rick Culpepper…the one viable print they had did _not_ belong to Rick Culpepper.

Crawford reached across the desk and picked up the phone; he checked his watch quickly as he punched in an extension. "Edna, I need you to do a records search on Justice Lark. J.U.S.T.I.CE. L.A.R.K. Thank you…oh, and get William Foster on the phone for me. If he's not at home or in the car, try the Academy…they're using conference room 1516…Thanks, Edna."

Jack watched the video a dozen more times and still couldn't see anyone but Rick Culpepper chatting up hookers in a snowstorm.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 8:15 am – Constitution Avenue, NW – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Dorothy Culpepper fought down a surge of anxiety. Her son was accused of two vicious murders… _murders he did not commit_. What if they didn't believe her? Roger had used his influence to create false birth records for Rick and Justice. Officially, they were cousins. Her documents were a bit unusual…but they _had_ to believe her…she would make them believe.

Her boy…her precious baby. Not once had she ever thought of him as anything other than her son. Her _natural_ son.

She didn't like to think about the truth. It had been a beautiful day…one of those crystalline days in late winter. Roger had hired a nanny. It was Marie who'd brought Rick home and laid him in her arms. He was the first live baby she'd ever held and she'd burst into tears of joy. When her tears fell on his tiny forehead, he screwed his face up and let out a lusty howl.

Years passed before she ever thought of Rick's brother. Poor Dolores, so needy…with that crazy husband…she'd been glad Rick's twin was with Dolores easing her loneliness. But that was a closed chapter in their lives. She did not revisit it.

It wasn't until that day at Easter Seals when she'd accidentally run into Honor and that angel. That poor little angel with the broken wing… she'd thrown up in the parking lot, then raced home to hug her baby. Later she'd taken a closer look at her husband.

Dorothy had always thought he was strong: he'd accumulated power but he used it for good, to keep them safe. When she opened her eyes a little, she saw streaks of meanness in him…and a faint scent of corruption. Oh, Roger looked good, but she'd stayed blind to the darkness lurking beneath the skin. That poor child…Justice? His whole life had been shaped by that darkness before he was a week old.

Wine coolers kept the uglier permutations of their 'arrangement' with Honor from spilling into her consciousness for awhile. She had no idea when she graduated to gin that she'd chosen Honor's favorite poison, though at that point she'd wished it really was poison. She feared for that child and as she watched Rick grow under Roger's calculating eye, she feared for him, too.

But she'd been wrong about Rick. He'd turned out _just fine_. A good man…an FBI agent with a successful career. Of course, he could be hard. Like Roger. So much like Roger…still. Many men were hard and they were not murderers and neither was her son. HER son.

Fear clutched at her heart. Learning the circumstances of his birth and adoption would be a shock under ideal circumstances…but now? She couldn't bear to think of the hurt in Rick's eyes…or worse. What if he hated her? Oh, how she wished she'd slipped one of those little bottles of Tanqueray into her purse when the cart had come around the second time…

Dorothy unconsciously straightened in the back seat of her cab. No matter. She'd turned the whole ugly mess over to the Blessed Mother when she'd made her plane reservation. Her mission was to save her son. If she lost his love in the process, well, perhaps that was the price she'd have to pay for years of deception no matter how well-intentioned. She would gladly serve her penance in exchange for his safety.

And it was _her_ son she was going to save. God help Justice Lark after she's had her say with the FBI.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 8:30 am – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Edna Spivey hurried into conference room 1516, Ed Blevins on her heels. "Please Mr. Blevins, the Director is very busy at the moment. You must wait…please…"

"It's all right, Edna…"

"Agent Foster is on line one for you, Sir." Security Chief Blevins did not move out of her path, forcing her to go around him. She turned and spat, "Mr. Blevins wishes to see you, Mr. Crawford," before stalking down the hall toward her office.

Crawford picked up the phone and gestured at the chair next to him. "Have a seat, Ed…"

Blevins quickly leaned over the table and pressed the disconnect button. "A woman named Dorothy Culpepper is in the lobby demanding to see you. Claims to be Rick Culpepper's mother. She sent this note…said you'd want to talk to her right away."

Placing the receiver back in its cradle, Jack took the envelope, withdrew the heavy notecard and read Mrs. Culpepper's message. His confidence that he couldn't be shocked any more that day flew right out the window.

"Jesus Fucking Christ…OK…Ed, bring her up here…take her to my office. Have Edna get her some coffee or something…I'll be along in a few minutes."

Blevins turned on his heel. "Yes, sir."

Crawford called after him, "Ed, thanks…good call."

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. "This just gets better and better…" The winking light on the phone caught his attention. "William? Crawford…sorry to keep you waiting but…WHAT? You're kidding…they're sure? Jesus…everything has busted loose all at once."

The Director stood and started to pace. "Listen, I have film of someone who looks just like Culpepper cruising Vermont Avenue in the snow last night and the print on that cricket? Not Culpepper. Yes, we're sure…I dragged Helen Taylor in here to confirm. Yes, in the snow…"

A half smile crept onto Crawford's face. "God, you're getting as cheeky as your old man…sure, tell him I said that…All right, I need you folks to look at all the cases with new eyes taking into consideration that someone else might be involved…accomplice or perpetrator, I'm not sure. Oh, they are? Good. OK…I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks, William."

Hanging up, Jack paused to think for a moment before heading out of the conference room door. Dorothy Culpepper's note lay behind him on the table, a single word written precisely in the center.

_TWINS._

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 17 to follow shortly.**_


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**,** vrtrakowski**,** smacky30**,** scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 9:00 am – Quantico****

* * *

**

Miranda Robinson stepped away from the crime scene photos pinned to the wall. "I think you guys are right. I had a case several years ago involving an amputee…prosthetics don't usually feature a flexible foot, which accounts for the difference between left and right footprints." The older woman turned to Sara with a smile. "Good catch, Sara."

Graham, who'd been watching closely from his seat as Robinson considered the new evidence, snapped to attention. "Hey!"

"Oh, calm yourself, Bayou Boy." Miranda moved to give Will a friendly pat on the shoulder. "You _all_ did an excellent job picking out this new piece of evidence. In fact," she said, giving him a little shove, "this is the first thing I've seen that doesn't scream 'Rick Culpepper.' I didn't think that was possible."

Reaching up to touch Miranda's hand where it lingered on his shoulder, Graham nodded toward his son. "Those footprints coupled with the evidence Crawford just dropped on Willy certainly leads us away from Culpepper."

Sara exchanged looks with Grissom and Foster. As if reading their minds, Graham withdrew his hand quickly before leaning forward to pick up the report of Culpepper's movements over the last 10 years. Miranda glanced at her hand left hovering in mid-air, slightly puzzled and embarrassed.

Graham said, a bit too brightly, "Have you looked at this, Willy?"

Foster repressed a grin. "My arms were full when I came in, Dad. Jill shoved it under my arm when I went by Reception."

Frowning, Graham paged through the report. "Our boy has a lot of transfers with the Bureau in his jacket…he attended the Academy in '84 and worked out of the DC office from '85 to '97 and then he starts moving around…Minneapolis from '97 to 2000… Milwaukee in '01, Chicago in '02, Indianapolis in '03…"

He looked up, incredulous, as he continued ticking off transfers. "_Kentucky_, for Christ's sake, in '04. Cincinnati in '05…he came back to DC at the end of 2005. He's been detailed between DC and the Academy ever since."

Grissom tilted his head. "Transfers aren't common with the Bureau?"

Foster took the report from Graham's hand and looked through it himself. "Not this many. I wonder what this means? _Something_ had to be going on to move an agent around like this."

Sara wandered over to the chart she'd put up on the white board…could it have been only the night before? So much had happened since then. Softly, she said, "Guys…"

Mason and Miranda didn't hear her; they were involved in speculating why Culpepper had been moved around so much. Louder this time, she called over her shoulder, "Hey, guys…"

Sara had to shout a third time to get their attention. When all eyes had turned to her, one long, graceful arm came up and pointed to the city listed above the name of each victim as she walked the length of the board. "Anything about these cities look familiar to you?"

Mason's eyes widened. "Aren't there FBI offices in those cities?"

"William…what city in Kentucky was Culpepper transferred to?" Sara asked.

Foster checked the data. "Louisville…he was in Louisville in '04 from February to October…the Kentucky murder was end of May." He paused to examine the first page of the report. "Jesus…he was born and raised in Duluth."

Mason looked around at the group and sat down heavily. "What the Hell is going on with these cases? One minute it's Culpepper and the next it's not and now virtually all the victims were found in cities where he was known to be living and working at the time?"

Grissom and Graham sat close to one another at the conference table, unconsciously striking identical poses as they thought about what they knew.

Miranda shook her head. "OK, let me see if I have this straight. There are footprints at some of the scenes which seem to indicate a person with a prosthetic leg walked into and out of the scenes. We have film of what appears to be Culpepper at the Sculpture Garden scene dumping the body and making a set of those footprints…"

Each person in the group nodded as she went down her mental list. "Crawford just told William that HE has footage of someone who-looks-like-Culpepper-but-isn't chatting up hookers in a snow storm while the real Culpepper was confirmed to be in the DC Jail AND the Bureau print lab determined the one and only print we have…on that cricket you boys found jammed on a thorn at the DC scene…does not belong to Rick Culpepper but to some guy named Justice Lark. Is that it?"

Sara reminded, "Don't forget the DNA evidence."

Miranda nodded. "Right…blood and semen at two scenes came back a match to Agent Culpepper."

The air in the room was thick with thought. Grissom and Graham looked at each other, then at the group and said quietly, with conviction, "Twins."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 9:15 am – Suitland, MD****

* * *

**

Fred Grey sat uncomfortably in his Suitland, Maryland living room watching the crew from CNN set up for his interview. Now that push had come to shove, he wasn't so sure this was a good idea, but that damn reporter had been relentless from the moment he'd called the network and now it was too late. It would have been so much better if Horace had agreed to sit in, but, in his words, _"You want to be stupid, include me out."_

Was he being stupid? Maybe so, but the people had a right to know.

Chief Davenport made such a big deal that the man who murdered those girls had been caught…_"the city is safe once again."_ OK, forget that _that_ statement was just plain bullshit. They had one guy in custody but that other one – the look-alike – the Department had been in an uproar ever since he and Horace turned in their surveillance footage…extra shifts and patrols, suspension of leave, habitual offenders dragged in for questioning... The FBI was all over their film, too, and no one…not Davenport and certainly not that suit from the Eff-Bee-fucking-Eye…had told the public about a snag in the official story.

The people _did_ have a right to know…so they could keep themselves and their families safe. The fact that CNN was giving him an honorarium, whatever the fuck that was, of $500 had nothing to do with it. _Nothing._

Fred got up from the couch to talk with the cameraman and the sound guy. "You're not going to show my face, right? And they said you could disguise my voice?"

The techs exchanged a quick look, but only the cameraman spoke. "Sure, man…your face will be in shadow and Denny here will run your voice track through the computer. Your own mother wouldn't recognize you."

Grey nodded and frowned slightly. "I'll lose my job if they figure out it's me…you're sure this'll work?"

Reporter Lisa King pasted on her most reassuring smile. "Mr. Grey, you have nothing to worry about. I promised we would protect your identity and that is what we will do. Now, could you sit back down so these gentlemen can finish their preparations?"

Fred held her gaze for a long time and King showed him her heart-melting sincere face. Finally he nodded and wandered back over to the couch.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 9:30 am – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

"Twins?" Jack Crawford sat at his desk with hands clasped in front of him and a carefully neutral look on his face.

The woman sat stiff backed in her chair, challenging Crawford's steady gaze with one of her own. "That is correct."

A hundred questions hung in the air but neither spoke, choosing instead to take one another's measure. Neither looked away.

A soft knock on the door drew their attention to Edna Spivey who entered to place a thick folder in Crawford's hand. "That personnel jacket you asked for, sir." Dorothy Culpepper clutched the briefcase in her lap while Crawford flipped through the file.

Jack spoke casually as he scanned the record for family info. "I worked with your husband once, years ago, Mrs. Culpepper. Rick is very much like him. You must be proud."

"Mr. Crawford, my husband was a determined man who wielded enough power to make things happen…not all of them strictly legal for all he was a judge…and yes, Rick is a _lot_ like him." She paused to take a breath. "But Rick is not a murderer. I am here to help him in perhaps the only way I can, by revealing a secret I swore never to reveal…"

Dorothy suddenly found herself pierced by Crawford's full attention. "Are you seriously trying to tell me Agent Culpepper has a secret the Bureau background check and a series of security clearance investigations failed to turn up?" He nodded slightly at the file. "Richard Redgrave Culpepper is an only child, born at 11:59 a.m., February 28, 1960 to you and your husband in Duluth, Minnesota. There is no record of a twin. His only siblings are two infant girls who died long before he was born."

Raising her chin and narrowing her eyes, Dorothy said quietly. "Those records are inaccurate."

Jack Crawford cocked an eyebrow. "These records came from the state of Minnesota, Mrs. Culpepper."

"As I said, Mr. Crawford, my husband made things happen…he could also make things disappear…" She paused briefly as she unzipped her briefcase and withdrew an accordion file. "Sometimes the disappearances were permanent, but not in the case of these birth records."

Dorothy continued as the Director withdrew papers from the file. "I received those when my sister…my twin sister…Dolores passed away. There is a birth certificate on top."

The old photostat was faded but readable:

_Mother: Dolores Redgrave Lark  
__Father: Isaac Honor Lark  
__Baby Boy 1 – February 28, 1960, 11:59 p.m. – 5 lbs, 12 oz  
__Baby Boy 2 – February 29, 1960, 12:13 a.m. – 5 lbs, 4 oz_

Swallowing his surprise at seeing the name Lark on the birth record, Crawford asked, "You're claiming Baby Boy 1 is your son Rick?" Mrs. Culpepper nodded.

Jack's belly tightened. "What happened to Baby Boy 2?"

"They raised him…my sister and her husband. I lost track of him years ago when Dolores died."

"What's his _name_, Mrs. Culpepper?"

"Justice…they named him Justice."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 9:30 am – Quantico****

* * *

**

Sara scrubbed her face and rubbed her eyes. Mason and Miranda were discussing the latest evidence, Grissom was chatting with Agent Foster and Will Graham was sitting dumbly at the conference room table looking every bit at tired as she felt.

Grabbing a bottle of water from the center of the table, Sara sat down. "Tired, Will?"

It took a moment for him to process that someone was talking to him. "Huh?"

Sara opened the bottle and took a sip. "Aren't you going on 24 hours with no sleep?"

Graham yawned and scratched his head. "Unlike you?"

The power of suggestion was irresistible: Sara stifled a yawn and a smile. "Very funny."

Grissom patted Foster on the sleeve then took a seat next to Sara. "William gave me directions to the cadet's locker room. We can shower and get a change of clothes without having to go back to the dorm …maybe have a real meal at the Dining Hall. What do you think?"

Sara made a face at the mention of the Ptomaine Palace.

"OK, no Dining Hall…Want to join us, Will? William, Miranda and Mason are going run down DNA samples from the old cases and see what they can find out about Justice Lark's movements over the last 10 years. We're due for a break and you look like you could use one."

Yawning hugely, Graham laughed when Sara and Grissom yawned in return. "Good deal."

xxx

The Academy kept a supply of sweats in the cadets' locker room. Sara and the twins were soon showered, changed and feeling surprisingly refreshed. Graham elected to take his chances in the Dining Hall, leaving Grissom and Sara with some precious time by themselves.

"That was nice," Sara mused as they strolled through the Academy corridors.

"What?"

"I think he did that on purpose." She playfully bumped his shoulder with her own.

"Who?"

"Graham. I don't think he was hungry…I think he wanted to give us a chance to be alone."

Grissom paused and looked back in the direction Will had gone moments before. "Hmmm."

Quietly, Sara asked, "Have you noticed the way he looks at us?" She chewed on her lip for a moment, searching for the right words. "Sometimes I wonder if we remind him of the way he used to be with Molly. And if it…if we…make him sad."

When Grissom did not respond, she turned to find him frowning. "What is it?"

He stared straight ahead as he spoke, his words colored with emotion. "I've caught snatches of his grief, Sara… I would be just as lost if you were suddenly gone from my life." Moments passed before he glanced shyly at her and took her hand.

She smiled and returned a gentle squeeze. They walked on in comfortable silence.

Around the corner from their destination they passed an empty meeting room. Grissom swerved, pulling Sara inside and into his arms. He stopped her surprised giggle with a kiss.

After a few sweet moments, he pulled away. "Hey," he smiled.

"Hey yourself." Sara touched his cheek tenderly, "What was that for?"

Grissom searched her face. "Just checking in…you doing OK?"

Eyes soft, she said, "I'm fine…how about you?"

Grissom took another kiss and whispered as he hugged her, "Better now. Let's go back to work."

xxx

As the Task Force tracked Justice Lark's movements and the whereabouts of DNA evidence from six different states, Grissom sifted through the piles of papers and reports scattered over the surface of the mahogany conference table looking for a missing piece of the puzzle.

Graham, once again drinking stale coffee, sat next to Gil. "OK, what have we missed?"

"Has anyone interviewed Rick Culpepper? We've heard all about his movements and sexual proclivities, even his DNA…" Grissom looked over the top of his glasses questioningly, "but I don't recall reading a transcript of what he's been asked since he was taken into custody…do you?"

The grin on Graham's face made Grissom frown. "What?"

"You don't know how Jack Crawford works. He likes to let suspects stew until he's analyzed his evidence…once he knows those answers, he goes back to the suspect." Will leaned forward in his chair. "I don't imagine anyone has talked to Culpepper since his arrest…not an interrogation, anyway."

Grissom asked, "Well, I think it's time. How would Crawford feel about us questioning the guy?"

Graham stood and walked toward the door. "Let's get him on the phone…he can't question Rick…he's too close to the investigation. He's going to have to assign it…why not assign it to you?"

Gil sputtered, "Hey…I didn't necessarily mean me…"

Amused, Graham glanced around the room. "Who would you suggest? Culpepper hates my ass, so I'm out. Willy won't work for the same reason as Crawford…too close to the suspect. I don't know about Mason, but I suspect his coroner duties haven't let him practice his interrogation skills over the years. Miranda? They'd end up in a knock down drag out fight…"

Miranda heard her name and glanced at the pair. Graham smiled and gave her a little wave. The Atlanta detective looked puzzled and waved back before returning to her discussion with Mason Robichaud.

"Sara is one of the best interviewers I know…" Gil offered; he was privately concerned his run ins with Agent Culpepper during the Strip Strangler case would taint any interaction he had with the man. Grissom was hesitant to interrogate the FBI agent if he was unsure of his own objectivity.

Will swiveled his chair to look at Grissom seriously. "Oh, come on…given the sexual component of this case and the eerily similar look of the victims, is Sara a good choice?"

Grissom also had personal reasons for keeping Sara away from the interrogation…reasons that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the hungry looks Culpepper had thrown at Sara. He sighed in acceptance. "You're right."

It was Graham's turn to look over the top of his glasses. "Uh huh…"

Gil looked slightly sheepish. "You _are_ right…I guess it's me…for the interview."

The others looked up as the twins got up and approached the double doors. "Willy, we need to get Crawford on the phone. It's time for someone to interview Rick Culpepper. I think Grissom should do it. What do you all think?"

After some discussion in which everyone else passed on the meeting, William volunteered to take Grissom downtown to the DC Jail. Jack Crawford was in conference, but they left a message of their intentions with his assistant and headed out.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 10:00 am – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

Crawford pulled through the small pile of papers and photographs on his desk. The evidence was persuasive and though he could not accept it on his own, he was certain Dorothy Culpepper had just given him the key to these murders.

He studied a yellowed snapshot of identical infants cuddled together in a receiving blanket. Wrapped in one another's arms, they were the image of peace and innocence.

"Not anymore," he said quietly as he tossed the picture back on the pile and reached for the phone.

"Edna, would you have Marco Reyes come up here. I have some documents I need him to authenticate…and I'll need a car. No, I'm just going over to the DC Jail. Thanks…" Jack thought a moment and added, "Oh, and you better let Chief Davenport know I'm going to be visiting one of his prisoners…yeah, Rick Culpepper."

"_What a strange woman, Rick's mother…adoptive mother,"_ he corrected himself.

Her husband had apparently bought their son from her twin sister, abandoning the other, imperfect child to be raised by a man who'd already shown himself to be unstable. The sister, Dolores, had reached out to her family for help. Crawford was unable to say just what she'd received, but help was not it.

Mrs. Culpepper did not seem to think any of these arrangements were…peculiar. What must her sister have been like in comparison? Not to mention that poor woman's crazy husband.

Jack had offered to accompany Mrs. Culpepper to the DC Jail but she'd passed on a chance to visit with her son and he could sort of see her point…Rick might not be that thrilled to see her when he learned why she'd come, but if it cleared him of murder, he should be relieved…even grateful.

Gathering up the photos and papers, he stuffed them back in the accordion folder and wrote a quick note for the QD Chief. Crawford exhaled noisily as he considered Culpepper's reaction when he learned the truth about himself. Not good, he guessed…it was not going to be good.

Edna Spivey knocked softly on the office door. "You had a call while you were with Mrs. Culpepper…" She handed him a message, then turned to leave. "And you car is waiting out front."

Crawford took the pink paper and glanced at it. "Jesus!"

"Sir?"

"Get Marty Prince on the phone…he's the Commander at the DC Jail. Tell him I'm on my way and a couple of agents are also on their way to question Rick Culpepper. No one is to talk to the prisoner until I get there? Got it? Thanks, Edna." Crawford bolted out of the office trying to put on his overcoat as he banged down the emergency stairs leading to the street.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 11:00 am – Route 295 North – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Lisa King relaxed in the back of the SUV, very pleased the interview with Fred Grey had gone well. "Alan, what have you got for me? Yes, we got the interview…I know…I _know_, Alan…well, if you've got something good for me, it won't be the only interview."

She pulled out a notebook and flipped a few pages. "But I thought he wouldn't give us an interview? Really? What time? OK…we can be there in an hour. Thanks Alan."

King leaned forward in her seat, grinning. "Denny, turn us around. We have an appointment in Fredericksburg with the guy who found the first body."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 12:00 am – Massaponax, VA****

* * *

**

The old Craftsman style house had been condemned years ago. What had once been a prim little cottage was now wildly overgrown with snow covered wintering honeysuckle and Virginia creeper. From the road you could just make out the front door in the deep shade of the porch, screen door standing open and askew.

From the rear, virtually nothing was visible except a set of footprints to and from tire tracks left in the unplowed driveway. They wound through a scraggly hedge to what was left of an outdoor barbeque.

Someone had carefully swept snow from the wide brick apron. Since the crumbling brick grill was just as vine covered as the house, the contrast was stark.

Not as stark as the nude corpse tossed there, stranded as if thrown up on the cobbled beach by a restless, snowy sea.

There is something timeless about old and crumbling buildings. Relics of the past, they wait for modern day archeologists to stumble upon them and unearth their secrets.

The boys who used the abandoned house as a place to get high on weekends had no idea what was waiting for them in the back yard. Pigeons roosting peacefully in the eaves of the house exploded in all directions when the screaming started.

_**To Be Continued…Chapter 18 to follow shortly**_


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**,** vrtrakowski**,** smacky30**,** scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 12:15 pm – DC City Jail – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Jack Crawford was on the sidewalk in front of the jail waiting for his driver to pull around when his cellphone started ringing. Wrung out from an ordeal with Rick Culpepper, he checked Caller ID. Fredericksburg County Sheriff. _"Shit."_

He'd been ducking Porter's calls because he didn't want to lie, but he really couldn't go into detail about recent developments: too many variables, all of which needed to stay inside the investigation. Still, he owed the man something. Reluctantly, he took the call.

"Hello, Porter…sorry it's taken me so long to ge…"

Ames's familiar clipped voice cut him off. "Save it, Jack. We have another body. 1254 Mission Hill Drive, Massaponax. Send your people."

By the time Crawford was recovered enough to respond, the line was dead.

The Bureau driver slid to a stop, jumping out to open the rear door for the Director. Jack studied the narrow barred windows on the upper floors of the jail for a moment before settling into the back seat. Grissom was still up there…and Rick Culpepper was like wild boar, likely to disembowel anyone who got close enough.

Having a suspect off balance was usually good place to start an interrogation, but in this case? Jack silently wished the Las Vegas CSI luck…he was going to need it.

Forgotten, the phone jumped in his hand. "Crawford…oh, hello, Edna…I'm on my way to Massaponax. Get a hold of the Task Force for me…"

His voice faded as the car was swallowed by DC traffic.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 12:30 pm – Quantico****

* * *

**

Jill Arthur looked at the message in her hand and thought about everything she had to do in the next half hour: arrange transportation, get the proper kits and gear…she'd better make a list.

When she entered conference room 1516, the remaining members of the Task Force looked up from their various tasks. "Sorry to interrupt…I have a message from Director Crawford. Another body has been found."

Miranda Robinson glanced quickly at Will Graham. "Son of a bitch…you were right."

In answer to Will's satisfied little smile, the Atlanta detective snapped, "No one likes a smart ass, Bayou Boy."

Graham met her scowl with a wink. "You do."

"Shut up."

Miss Arthur continued. "The Director wants you all out there right away. If you assemble under the portico in 30 minutes, gear and transportation will be waiting."

Mason and Miranda were out of their seats and out the door almost immediately.

When she turned to leave, Sara was surprised to find Graham studying her. "What?"

One eyebrow crawled into Will's hairline; he looked so like Grissom it gave her goosebumps. She held up one hand and said seriously, "I'll be careful…I promise."

Will's face was filled with a gentle concern as he approached her. "I know you think we're worried for no reason...but you have to see you fit the physical type."

Sara exhaled noisily. "I do see it, Will, but the chances of him seeing and targeting me are so small." She patted his arm, "Grissom, is just..."

"In love with you?" His hand covered hers and gave it a friendly squeeze. "Sara, look at it from his point of view. Part of him is always thinking about you…wondering if you're safe. If nothing else, be careful for his peace of mind."

"OK," she nodded. "I will, I promise."

Relieved, Will sighed. "Thank you, Sara." He nodded toward the door. "Let's go see what Justice has to say to us this time."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 12:45 pm – DC City Jail – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Grissom stood in the semi-darkness watching Rick Culpepper through a two way mirror. The man in question was red in the face with rage, stalking back and forth inside the interview room. Agent Foster came in and closed the door quietly behind him.

He stood next to Gil and watched Culpepper for a moment. "How long are you going to let him stew?"

Distracted, Grissom exhaled, "I don't know, William…I don't know."

The last hour had been unlike anything he'd ever seen.

_Agent Foster practically jumped on the Director when he'd arrived. "Mr. Crawford…why are we being prevented from interviewing Rick Culpepper?" His words flew rapid fire. "Martin Prince told us you'd ordered Culpepper sequestered until you arrived. I don't understand…"_

_Crawford raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "Agent Foster...Dr. Grissom..." He looked William directly in the eye. "I'm sorry. I should have told Marty why I didn't want you to talk to Rick, but there wasn't time…"_

"_You wanted to tell him..." Grissom began, fingering the edge of the file in his hand, "before he heard it somewhere else…from us maybe." He caught and held Crawford's gaze. "Because you just learned Rick Culpepper is an identical twin."_

_The Director's mouth dropped open slightly and he stared back at the Las Vegas CSI. No one but Will Graham had ever put the wind up him like that. Seemed the rumors were right: they shared more than just looks._

_He swallowed hard, attempting to collect himself. "Yes, Dr. Grissom…how di…"_

"_We only just figured it out ourselves." Grissom shrugged. "It's not unreasonable to assume you got your information from an independent source like…" Gil tilted his head, waiting for an answer._

"_His mother." Crawford confirmed. "Dorothy Culpepper. She flew in from Duluth to save her son…" _

"_And hang his twin." Grissom nodded toward the folder he was holding. "Justice Lark."_

_Foster let out a low whistle. The young agent looked at Grissom with wide eyes, surprised, awed, and a little frightened. He shook his head and continued slowly. "You really are like Dad."_

_Crawford spoke thoughtfully "Gentlemen, I've worked with Rick Culpepper for almost 20 years and I owe him something…" He paused, as if he was analyzing his own motives. "His own mother was afraid to tell him the truth...so I'm going to do it."  
_

_One of Grissom's eyebrows rose as Crawford thought out loud, but he didn't comment on the older man's plan. "That must have been an interesting meeting, Mr. Crawford…with Mrs. Culpepper."_

"_You have no idea…" he shook his head, then sighed. "Look, the time is ripe to interview Culpepper." When he realized Foster and Grissom were nodding, he smiled tightly. "In on my secrets, I see…well, it's time to talk to Rick. It can't hurt to have him off kilter, so let me have a few minutes with him and then he's all yours."_

_They'd watched Crawford leave and reappear through the interview room door. Culpepper was brought in and within minutes the younger agent was shouting and prowling around the room like a caged beast._

_When he was finished, Jack exited and poked his head back through the observation room door. "I've got to get back to my document authentication team. As soon as I have final word I'll contact you here or at Quantico." He met the entomologist's appraising gaze with a frank and unapologetic look of his own. "Good luck, Dr. Grissom."_

Grissom was startled out of his reverie by a loud BANG. The two way mirror rattled in its frame from the angry blow delivered by Rick Culpepper. He was standing on the other side of the glass, his face an angry mask. "Hey! Whoever's in there…come on out. Don't leave me hanging like this."

Grissom entered the interview room and sat down; Culpepper continued to pace. After he'd studied the older man for a few moments, he spat, "Which one are you?"

"Grissom."

Culpepper rubbed his chin. "Good. At least Crawford didn't send that broke dick Graham. I hate that guy."

"Crawford didn't send me, Agent Culpepper. I came on my own."

"Well, I guess you get an attaboy, then…you heard Crawford drop his little bomb?"

Grissom nodded. "Yes, I did."

"Jesus fucking Christ…as if being tossed in jail for murders I didn't commit wasn't enough, I learn my whole life has been a lie." Culpepper plopped down into the chair across from Grissom. _"Now_ I get to be interrogated by a CSI III from Las Vegas…"

"I don't believe you committed these murders, Agent Culpepper."

Rick shot out of his seat and threw his arms up in the air. "Well, lucky for me you're on my case then huh?"

Culpepper paced awhile longer, then paused, hands on hips. "I'm surprised you came by yourself…where is CSI Sidle? She goes everywhere you go, isn't that right?"

Grissom did not respond to the question, saying instead, "Agent Culpepper, testimony from two DC police technicians and street surveillance footage from Vermont Avenue indicates that you and someone who looks just like you…your twin…had contact with prostitutes working that area."

Rick Culpepper shrugged and resumed his agitated pacing.

"You were arrested because your DNA was found in two dead prostitutes: Susan 'Raven' Long and Penny 'Bliss' O'Brien." Grissom pulled photos of the dead women and DNA comparisons out of the file he'd brought with him and placed them in the center of the table. "If you are an identical twin, we are faced with the problem of trying to determine whether either or both of you had sexual contact with these women and how to tell your DNA apart."

"And which of us killed them? I'll give you a hint, Dr. Grissom…it wasn't me."

"You could help your case by cooperating with us, Agent Culpepper…" Grissom started.

"Oh, please…I should cooperate with _you?_ Jack Crawford makes up this silly ass Task Force to pry some broken down drunk out of the bottle…over my objections…and somehow, at the same time, I am implicated in a series of murders. Does Crawford use the best profiler he has or EVER had?" Culpepper paused for breath as tension in the room soared. The air was so thick with it, the tiniest spark would have ignited it like a bomb. "No, he sidelines me in fucking jail and uses…what…the _third_ string?" he scoffed. "No wonder you have to come here to ask for help. You should be begging me for my advice because you'll _never_ be able to solve this without me…"

Grissom calmly returned Culpepper's arrogant stare. "Did you have sexual contact with the women I mentioned? If we were looking for DNA you left behind, where should we start?"

Culpepper burst into gales of laughter. "I have to give you another attaboy, Grissom. You do stay on topic, don't you?" The younger man paused long enough to take a drink from a cup on his side of the table. "OK…I'll throw you a bone. I knew Raven and Bliss and I had sex with both of them. They called me their Back Door Man."

When the Las Vegas CSI did not respond, Rick sneered, "Shall I elaborate?"

While making a note in the file, Grissom commented, "You had anal sex with both women, is that right?" Rick nodded. "I presume you were not using the more usual definition of 'back door man'…a man having an affair with a married woman?" He glanced over the tops of his glasses; Culpepper shook his head.

"Did you wear a condom?"

The younger man grinned as both hands disappeared in his pants pockets. "Now where's the fun in that?"

Grissom frowned. "Agent Culpepper, please remove your hands from your pockets." Leering, Rick complied and Gil took a breath to dispel some of his aggravation. "Did you have oral or vaginal intercourse with either or both of these women?"

Still grinning, he said, "I'm not into oral, Dr. Grissom. Straight sex? Not much into that either...but Raven…" He shivered happily and lowered his voice to a coarse whisper, "She had the tightest little pussy…" He closed his eyes at the memory. When he realized he was not going to get a response from Grissom, he sighed, "And I didn't wear a condom for that, either."

Gil made another note in his file. As he looked up at his subject, he realized the man had a sizeable erection and he couldn't hide his uneasiness with Culpepper's crass sexuality.

"Are you judging me, Dr. Grissom?" Culpepper's outrage was apparent. "You _are_…"

When he realized his expression had given him away, Grissom stood awkwardly and moved to leave. "That's all I need for the moment, Agent Culpepper…um…thank you."

Enraged again, Culpepper rounded the table and placed himself in front of the door. "Who do you think you are, judging me?"

Grissom glanced at the two way mirror, knowing Agent Foster was on the other and would call for assistance. "No one…" He took a deep breath and made his voice as neutral as possible, "No one is judging you, Mr. Cul…"

"You son of a bitch!" The doorknob to the interview room turned back and forth a few times while Culpepper leaned on it with his whole weight. "You, of all people, have no right to judge me!"

As the door started to push open, Culpepper stepped away suddenly, causing Foster and a guard to tumble into the room. He stood against the wall with hands raised still glaring at Grissom while the guard got his balance and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

William glanced quickly at Grissom, keeping himself between the two men until Culpepper was safely handcuffed. "You all right, Gil?"

"I'm fine, William. Thank you."

The blond man spat, "You brought your _mistress_ along on this Task Force…on the government's dime, Grissom. I _paid_ for my sex…can you say the same?"

His eyes narrowed as he studied the older man, "Of course, I can't really blame you," he leered, "CSI Sidle is one succulent piece of ass." He thrust his hips forward suggestively.

"Culpepper," Foster growled warningly. He nodded to the officer, "Get him out of here."

"Ooooh, and I'll bet she's tight, too." As Culpepper was being led back to his cell, he started singing over his shoulder, _"__Hey, all you people that tryin to sleep…I'm out to make it with my midnight dream, yeah…cause I'm a back door man…__"_

Foster and Grissom had turned to leave the interview room when one last shot banged down the corridor. "Yeah, Grissom…can't blame you…young…long long legs…tight in all the right places…I'll take those sloppy seconds anytime."

Grissom's face went scarlet and Culpepper's screams of laughter echoed eerily down the hall.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 1:15 pm – Massaponax, VA****

* * *

**

The abandoned house on Mission Hill Drive was once part of a sturdy little neighborhood. Families knew each other and looked out for one another. The kids camped out in their back yards; the parents had cook outs and played canasta together once a week. When there was a death, every oven in a two block radius was busy cooking up casseroles for the bereaved.

The middle class folks who settled in Massaponax had been squeezed out over the last 20 years by rising property values. The few families left in the area were mostly renters in danger of losing their homes once some developer offered up enough cash to convince a few hold outs. McMansions full of people who didn't know or care who lived next door would sprout soon enough when that happened.

1254 Mission Hill Drive sat in the center of a block, three houses on either side. The homes directly behind – one block over on Burning Mill – shared rear property lines and in some cases, a single fence with their Mission Hill neighbors.

1255 Burning Mill Road was in far better shape than its backdoor counterpart. Painted pale blue with white trim, it sat on a small rise giving its occupants a good view of everything happening close by. Out back a couple of china berry trees and a thready mimosa had long ago been cut to stumps. Anyone who happened to look out the rear window of the attic dormer would have an unobstructed view straight through the Mission Hill house had it not been covered with vines. As it was, only the back yard was clearly visible.

Just now there was a lot to see out there. Justice Lark's latest Messenger.

xxx

Sheriff Porter Ames stood at the end of the overgrown driveway on Mission Hill Drive smoking a cigarette. He'd sent Billy Hanson to cordon off the road in front of the house. The Deputy had been first on the scene and was still looking green around the gills.

It was going to take some doing to keep the press off of this one. Three mutilated bodies in a week…that was news. The public would eat it up.

Ames threw down the butt and stubbed it out. _"Fucking vultures."_

As if on cue, a CNN news truck crunched around the corner at the far end of the street, cruising toward him at a crawl. "Christ on a Crutch, Billy…how long does it take to block off a street?" he muttered. Lights flashing, Hanson pulled across the intersection just then, hopping out of his unit to string crime scene tape from stop sign to street sign. "Terrific…great timing, Billy."

Before he could approach, three people burst from the SUV; the pretty one already peppering him with questions.

"Is it this is another victim in the series of killings over the last few days? Do you have an identity yet? Was this one branded like the others? How about…"

Ames held up his hands. "This is a restricted area…you people are going to have to leave."

Lisa King smiled, pleased to have something to film. "This is a public street, officer. We have a right to be here," she said evenly.

Porter Ames gestured toward the end of the street. "This is a crime scene and you need to get back in your vehicle and move behind the yellow tape."

The reporter glanced at her techs and nodded. They backed off but she knew tape was still rolling. "What about my questions, officer? New victim? Branding? Doesn't the public have a right to know?"

The smile that broke across Ames's face misled her…she was sure he was going to give her a nice juicy soundbite. Instead, he waved her forward. When she got close enough, he put his arm around her shoulder, plucked the mike from her hand and threw it as far as he could across the street. Very quietly, he said, "You need to turn yourselves around and get behind the yellow perimeter. If I have to tell you again, I will have you all arrested for criminal trespass and obstruction of justice. Are we clear?"

When she started to sputter about her microphone, his Dutch uncle one-armed embrace got painful. Ames whispered, "Are we clear? Good."

Quickly turning them around, he propelled her forward into her crew with a wide grin. "Thanks for your cooperation."

King and her colleagues scrambled into the van and backed down the street. Deputy Billy Hanson lifted the tape so they could drive under it. Rather than take up a post beyond the barrier, they spun out in the slush and lumbered off toward Route 1.

Porter Ames lit a cigarette and took a huge drag. "Fucking vultures."

xxx

The unfinished attic at 1255 Burning Mill Road was every bit as cold as it was outside. Justice Lark had to be careful his breath did not fog the window; the frost was hard enough to deal with. At least his binoculars had stopped fogging once they'd chilled to the ambient temperature…then he'd been able to get a real good look.

It had been hard to wait…he'd wanted to throw open the window to have a perfect clear view of The Messenger…but he'd been patient. By the time he finally got that look his hard on was huge.

He liked the cold. He was certainly used to it: in Minnesota, if you didn't respect the weather you died…Nature culling the herd…after all, that's what got Papa in the end. It was maybe 40º up here, but the cooler at Scarey-Lark had been colder than that and he'd never waited for his 'favorites' to warm up…it was either deal with the cold or the smell and frankly, getting used to the cold was easier.

Quickly unbuckling his pants, he pushed them down along with his shorts. The burning skin on his cock practically sighed with relief. His little bottle of slick stuff was cold, too…slathering that on sent delightful shivers straight up his spine. He couldn't help but moan a little.

The Messenger was splayed so prettily on the brick apron of that crumbling barbeque. There wasn't much blood this time, but he'd just have to deal. There was enough. Enough so that lovely crimson tendrils snaked out over her skin to pool slightly beneath her body.

Oh, how he wanted to take her again right there in the snow. The chill in the room matched the crystalline cold scene he was watching out the window…he could almost feel the clamp of her flesh in the grip of his pumping fingers. When he sank to his knees, the rough floorboards scraped his flesh like the frozen pavers would, and as he felt the blood flow, he climaxed so hard he collapsed on the floor.

For a long time, the only sound was his breathing as it slowed. The combination of the cold on his body and the burning skin on his cock made him smile. The best of both worlds…dead…alive…still…writhing... He loved contrasts and how one state could slide seamlessly into another…

His reverie was interrupted by slamming car doors and the sound of feet crunching up the driveway below. Finally…the crime scene techs. Favoring his oozing knee, he peered through the frost on the bottom half of the attic window.

A whole flock of people were invading his carefully staged tableau. Indistinct figures moved carefully at the verge…shooting suddenly to his feet, he looked for her through the clear spot on the window pane. No…no…not that one…no…where was she?

And then he saw her. Sidle. The sigh that escaped his lips fogged the glass.

Contrast again…clear…blurry…alive…dead.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 19 to follow shortly._**

_**Author's Note:** Rick Culpepper sings "Back Door Man" by Willie Dixon, most notably covered by The Doors in their 1967 album of the same name._


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**,** vrtrakowski**,** smacky30**,** scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 1:20 pm – Massaponax, VA****

* * *

**

Lisa King was having an excellent day. She'd logged two exclusive interviews on what was shaping up to be a _hot_ murder case and was on her way to a third…the boys who'd found the new body. She said a silent prayer of thanks for Alan who could find _anybody_ if he put his mind to it.

The public needed to be warned Special Agent Richard Culpepper might not be the killer…and if the DC Police Chief and the FBI could be made to look foolish, or better yet, as if they'd conspired in a cover up…well, all the better. Ratings would go through the roof.

As she reviewed her notes, she thought back to Taylor Aldridge describing the body he'd found. It was a good thing she'd worked on her reporter's reserve, otherwise she'd have been bothered by the haunted look in the man's eyes. What he described had been vivid enough…

She wondered idly who they knew at the FBI. If they could get crime scene photos showing the message burned into that first body or even the second, it would be a coup whether they were able to air them or not. King made a mental note to have Alan root through their contacts list for an 'in' at the Bureau.

"_I have not forgotten,"_ she mused. Maybe this was the angle into the story…Fred Gray had hinted the FBI was all over this because there were similar killings stretching back years…what about those victims? If the killer hadn't forgotten, how could the police? Lisa had to chuckle at her cleverness. Now _THAT_ was an angle.

She pulled out her cell phone and punched up her favorite number. "Alan, unless you have something else for me, I'm doing a standup outside the boys' house…Yes, I know, but if we don't break the story, our exclusives won't mean squat. I'm surprised those bastards over at Fox haven't got wind of it yet….Well, you'll have to edit the promo while I'm talking to the boys…Quit complaining…OK, I'll owe you big time. Get ready for a live feed…I'll call you when I'm ready."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 2:15 pm – Georgetown Inn – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Dorothy Culpepper had emptied the mini bar of gin and was still not drunk enough to pass out. She paced around the room wringing her hands, wondering if her son would ever speak to her again.

"Coward…I am a coward just like Roger always said I was," she moaned, thinking of some stranger telling her beloved Rick that his whole life was a lie. Her stomach rebelled against the upset and raw liquor in the only way it could, sending her flying to the bathroom just in time.

The porcelain was cool against her cheek, oddly comforting in an unyielding way. Dorothy struggled to her feet and rinsed her mouth out with water. What she saw in the mirror made her grimace: hair out of place, eyes red and swollen, make up streaked on her blouse. Quickly scrubbing her face, she pulled off her shirt and donned the robe she'd hung on the back of the bathroom door, then went in search of her hairbrush. She might be a coward, but she was always put together. There was no excuse for slovenliness.

As she sat at the vanity brushing her hair, she caught a glimpse of the television in the mirror. She'd turned it on for the noise and promptly forgotten it. What she saw made her heart jump into her throat. A picture of her boy…that awful mug shot…was displayed there, taking up half the screen.

"_The nude body of a young woman was discovered today in the back yard of an abandoned house in Massaponax, Virginia. A pair of teenagers found the victim and called the Spotsylvania County Sheriff's Department. Crime scene investigators are there now collecting whatever evidence they can._

_Is this another victim in the string of recent murders around the Washington, DC area? Despite claims by the DC Chief of Police, Charles Davenport, that they have a suspect in custody for the first two murders, this case shares a grisly parallel with the others: messages were burned into the torsos of these young women before they were staked to the ground through the chest. This information has been withheld by the police and the FBI. _

_It seems there are a series of murders going back at least 10 years across several states with similarities to these recent killings. The man in custody for the ones in our area – FBI Special Agent Richard Culpepper – may indeed be guilty of those crimes, but who killed the young woman found today? And what about those other victims…have they been forgotten?_

_We will air a special report on these cases tonight called, 'We Have Not Forgotten,' at 8:00 p.m. eastern time, featuring exclusive interviews with witnesses and others close to the investigation. Please tune in to keep your family safe. This is Lisa King in Massaponax, Virginia, reporting for CNN."_

Dorothy Culpepper picked up the phone and dialed the operator. "Hello…this is Mrs. Culpepper in room 713. Could you find the number of CNN for me? Yes, the news channel…I'll wait."

The eyes that stared back at her in the vanity mirror were no longer frightened.

xxx

A very determined Dorothy Culpepper waded through several layers of functionaries before reaching CNN line producer Alan Burrows.

"Hello, Mr. Burrows? My name is Dorothy Culpepper…my son is FBI Special Agent Ri.."

Annoyed to be interrupted while editing, the whale he had on the line quickly helped him adjust his attitude. Excited, he interrupted, "Special Agent Richard Culpepper…yes, Mrs. Culpepper, how may I help you? You must be very upset about what has happened to your son…"

"My son is innocent," Dorothy intoned, maintaining her reserve.

Empathy oozed out of him. "I'm sure he is, Mrs. Culpepper."

"Well, I just want to make that clear…my Rick has never hurt anyone…other than in the line of duty. He is an FBI Agent after all. He sends criminals to _prison_."

"Of course…of course…"

The words just fell out of her. "You keep airing that dreadful mug shot…I saw it not 10 minutes ago and had to call. My boy is not a killer, Mr. Burrows."

Alan dusted off his very best purr. "Maybe you'd like to tell the world, Mrs. Culpepper…would you be willing to talk to us about your son?"

Suddenly wary, Dorothy pulled back, "Oh, I don't know…"

Burrows dangled the bait. "Mrs. Culpepper. The public only knows what they hear and so far, all they've heard is that your son is accused of brutally murdering two women. Did you know there are a string of murders going back years across several states that will likely be hung on him, too?" That last was a reach, but not an outright lie.

"Oh, my Lord Jesus…no…"

Capitalizing on the sob in the woman's voice, he pounced, "You can give us another perspective…tell us about the real man and why he could never have hurt those women. The public has a right to know if the police have it wrong…How many cases have you seen where some poor soul is released after _decades_ of wrongful imprisonment for crimes they didn't commit?" He went for the kill. "Do you want your son to lose a valuable advocate – public opinion – as he prepares to fight for his life?"

Dorothy was weeping, stunned by news that was so much worse than before…could the documents she'd given Crawford clear him of those old murders, too? _"What to do…what to do…oh sweet Jesus, show me what to do…"_

Roger, who had been so strong when he was alive, spoke in her heart when she needed him; he'd always harped on privacy and staying out of the public eye. Rick, too, had adopted that view going so far as to make his living in the shadows.

This was a special case…the darkness of the past might just claim Rick now because of his father's sins of secrecy…she couldn't let that happen. That was why she'd come here and told Crawford her secrets: to save her son.

But, what if the threat was _bigger_ than Crawford? Rick was a convenient scapegoat for that old series of unsolved murders. They'd be wiped off the books in one fell swoop and her baby destroyed before she could help. He'd be ruined by rumor and suspicion if he wasn't cleared immediately.

Dorothy leaned into the mini bar and extracted two small bottles of Smirnoff. Tossing them back one after the other, she coughed as the liquor seared its way down her throat.

Booze-soaked fear eventually trumped her better judgment.

"Mr. Burrows…I will talk to you about my son." A wave of dizziness swept through her; she braced herself against the vanity for support. "Though you must understand, we are private people. I will not participate in any sort of media circus."

Alan was beginning to wonder if he'd lost the connection when he recognized the sounds he was hearing and smiled. He'd had to rely on hundred proof bravery once or twice himself. "Oh, no, Mrs. Culpepper. I assure you…we will handle the interview with the utmost decorum."

The room finally started to swim in Dorothy's eyes, making conversation difficult. "Very well." She took a fortifying breath. "I am in Washington at the Georgetown Inn. I will leave word at the desk that you are expected."

Looking longingly at the nearby mini bar, she pulled out another Smirnoff but passed out before she could open it. She would awaken later with bruises and a hangover. Fortunately, she'd had a number of similar falls at home and traveled with a special collection of concealers to hide the evidence.

xxx

Alan Burrows heard Mrs. Culpepper fall. Panicked, he shouted, "When…when can we come interview you?"

Nothing.

"FUCK!"

Ever the fixer, Burrows found Lisa on the road and told her to park in the lobby of the Georgetown Inn until the old bat woke up.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 2:15 pm – Massaponax, VA****

* * *

**

By the time Jack Crawford's car pulled up at the scene, Massaponax had become media central. All the local outlets plus the majors had descended on the place like a plague of locusts. Not much more than a bedroom and shopping community, the sudden influx of reporters and satellite trucks had drawn more than the usual number of onlookers: the area at each end of Mission Hill Drive was thick with pedestrians trying to see what there was to see.

Billy Hanson and two other deputies were attempting to keep order when Jack rolled down the window from the back seat. ID out, he identified himself. Billy quickly raised the tape so the driver could pull through and roll slowly up the street to a waiting Porter Ames.

As Crawford exited the vehicle a pair of helicopters cruised low enough to film the scene. He had to shout to be heard. "Is my team here yet?" He around for the Academy van.

Porter followed the helicopters as they buzzed up the street and slowly circled overhead. "Yeah, they're here…arrived about 45 minutes ago…I sent them around back." The older man looked at his friend sympathetically. "Bad luck this one was discovered in time for the news people to jump all over it. It's going to go national this time, Jack…first bunch I tossed out of here were from CNN."

"Shit!"

When the noise overhead died down, Ames offered quietly, "They've got some details about the bodies…the reporter, Lisa King? Knew about the messages burned into the bodies."

Crawford exploded. "Fuck a God damned duck."

Pulling out a cigarette and lighter, Ames took a deep drag and exhaled slowly once he got it lit. "Yeah, that's pretty much how I feel about it. Sorry, Jack."

The Director looked up and down the street. "You got enough guys to keep the scene clear?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "I've got some staties coming it at shift change. We got it covered."

"Thanks for calling me first, Porter. I owe you…" Jack held out his hand.

The Spotsylvania County Sheriff looked down at Crawford's hand and took another drag on his cigarette. He met Crawford's gaze in all seriousness. "Yeah, you do." Seeing from the other man's face that he'd made his point, he said, "Go 'round back and see your people. They been waiting for you."

Taking the hint, Crawford crunched up the driveway and disappeared through the hedge.

xxx

Will Graham stood at the edge of the Mission Hill scene watching the team as they processed: Miranda was discussing the best way to make molds of tire tracks in snow with one of Ames's deputies, Sara was photographing foot prints leading into and out of the area around the body, and Mason was puttering around the victim. A smile crept onto his face as that choice of words registered. Graham decided the elderly coroner reminded him of a gardener tending beloved roses, only it was too cold for roses out here and that was no American Beauty splayed out beneath Mason's sure and gentle hands.

Crawford approached from his left, huffing with the effort to slog through calf deep snow. "That is one long ass driveway…Jesus, Will…another one…so soon?"

Graham turned slightly and looked at the Director out of the corner of his eye. "Looks like it."

The two men stood for a moment, one serene and the other growing increasingly uncomfortable. Jack looked at his old friend while fighting the urge to smooth down the hair on the back of his neck. "You've got him…in your head…the killer…"

Frozen breath from a sigh temporarily obscured Will's face, but when Crawford could see it again, that odd unfocused look was perched there. Graham was doing it…that thing he did: delving into the dark turn of mind that made him an ideal profiler. He was taking a walk around in the perpetrator's skin.

It was damned creepy to watch, though. Jack felt faintly sick to his stomach and anxious to be elsewhere. "I'll leave you to it…oh, by the way, Culpepper and Lark _are_ identical twins. Culpepper's mother came to see me, complete with legal documentation. QD just authenticated them. It's true."

"I see." Will smiled vaguely and went back to his dark thoughts.

"I'll be around if you need anything." Crawford realized as he said it that Graham's ugly tour had already begun and his comment had fallen on deaf ears.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 2:30 pm – Route 95 South near Fredericksburg, VA****

* * *

**

Grissom sat stiffly next to Agent Foster as they struggled down the snow choked highway toward Massaponax. Arms crossed firmly across his chest in unconscious imitation of the woman he loved, the Las Vegas CSI was the picture of a man trying to hold it together.

Traffic was heavy, putting additional strain on Gil's nerves already taut from his interview with Culpepper.

"What are all these people doing out here? It's Saturday. The roads are terrible. They should go home," Grissom grumped.

Foster studied the man beside him: face deeply lined with stress, mouth set in a worried frown. This man who looked so like his dad appeared grimly determined. When his mom was dying, he and Will had made endless trips to Georgetown University Medical Center to be with her through chemo and radiation and finally, through the horrible process of letting go of life. Father and son had both worn the exact same look for months.

Knowing it wouldn't help, he tried anyway. "I'm sure she's fine, Gil."

Grissom continued to stare darkly out the window. "I know."

Traffic ground to a halt behind an accident that had closed all lanes going south. Foster thought Grissom might break something from clenching and unclenching his jaw muscles. "Maybe we can call somebody?"

Exhaling noisily, Gil looked over at William. "I don't know who…I'm sure the rest of the Task Force is at the scene…they can't leave…they shouldn't stop what they're doing to satisfy my…impatience."

Foster had reached the same conclusion himself. As they idled in gridlock, a possibility leapt to mind. Pulling out his cell, William scrolled to the right number and punched send. "Sheriff Ames, this is Agent William Foster….Yes, we met at the Sky Landing crime scene. CSI Gil Grissom and I are stuck behind an accident on 95 just north of Fredericksburg and unable to get to your scene…any way you could help us out?" After a pause he hung up and angled his car onto the shoulder.

"Get out of the car," he smiled, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"What?" Grissom's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Get out of the car…there's a state trooper on his way to relieve one of Ames's deputies…he'll be rolling down the shoulder lane in a few minutes…he needs to see us to know we're the people he's to escort."

Still puzzled, Grissom complied, unbuckling and getting out of the car onto the shoulder next to a huge pile of cleared snow. "An escort? This is not an emergency, William…"

Foster saw a blue flashing light in the distance and indicated it with a nod. "Well, there's a fine line between a genuine emergency and the merely urgent…_I_ think we're way past urgent edging toward emergent." A slate gray state police vehicle let out a few whoops as it rolled along the break-down lane, coming to a stop behind Foster's sedan.

After a brief talk with Trooper Mendez, Grissom and Foster returned to the car, waiting while their escort wiggled around them in traffic so they could follow him down the shoulder.

Gil turned to Foster with a brief, relieved smile. "Thanks, William."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 2:45 pm – Massaponax, VA****

* * *

**

Graham glanced at the sky and thought, _"We're going to lose the light, soon."_ An image slipped across his thoughts like a scarf in the wind, tumbling over itself to suddenly unfold before his mind's eye – that poor girl at Sky Landing pinned by the work lights just as firmly as the rebar through her chest. _"Obscene…it's obscene to shine a spotlight on that."_

This was it…this was where he gave in and let that thing he did have full reign…and he could feel it pressing for admission to his consciousness. Frowning, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook, temporarily redirecting his thoughts.

The last few days of intense analysis had brought him closer to the killer if for no other reason than the mountain of data he'd read through. But here, in this outdoor meat locker where the perp stored his dreams, the shadow man felt close. If he was very quiet, Graham could almost hear him breathing.

Shivering, he flipped open his notebook, trying to delay his descent into madness.

Like a diver in those anxious seconds before a high dive, he paused to concentrate. Gritting his teeth, his mind started to wander…

"Will…Will Graham…"

As if from a great distance, Graham heard his name. Mason. Irritated, he struggled to refocus. The Louisiana Chief Medical Examiner beckoned to him. Will made his way over, careful to stay on the path they'd established to the crumbling barbeque and the body.

"What's up, Mason?"

"I was preparing to move the body when I noticed this," He pointed toward something near the victim's groin.

Kneeling, Graham strained to see. "I don't see anything."

"Well, it's partially hidden in the crease where the thigh joins hip. I almost missed it myself…here…look again." Robichaud grasped the victim's knee and bent it slightly so Graham could see the inside of the right thigh.

It was another message. 'Sidle' was burned into the woman's thigh – a flourish on the tail of the 'e' snaked into the skin fold at the hip joint.

"Holy Mother of God…" Graham choked out as he rocked back on his heels.

"Exactly." Mason looked up and caught Graham's eye and they both glanced at Sara, still busy with the foot prints near the hedge. He went on in a whisper, "We've been speculating that these killings were personal…a message for somebody." He shook his graying head mournfully. "If they weren't before, they are now."

xxx

Sidle. There she was…knit cap pulled down over her hair, cheeks rosy with the cold…and who'd have thought seeing her breath would be a turn on? Oh, but it was…

So close, breathing in and out, little clouds wreathing her head. He had to close his eyes as the words 'live one' made his cock jump in his hand.

Seeing her frosty breath suddenly became the focus of his lust. He worked himself in time with those little puffs, each breath a loving pull on his cock as he imagined being buried in her, embraced as much by the power of her lungs as the grip of her pussy.

Sidle bent to study something on the ground, her coat riding up to expose that shapely ass…her jeans were tight and that little space between her thighs practically reached out and sucked his cock. How would it feel to be cradled in her arms…as good as his dreams? Better?

Through clenched teeth he gasped, "Oh God…" and came all over the pink fiberglass insulation in the unfinished wall.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 20 to follow shortly._**


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 2:45 pm – Massaponax, VA  
****

* * *

**

Miranda Robinson stood in the driveway of the Mission Hill scene alongside Deputy Pete Strong discussing tire tracks in snow. "This is out of my ball park, Pete. We get mud in Atlanta, but not a lot of snow." She took a few shots then lowered the camera. "And photographs just aren't going to get it…we need molds."

Strong, arms crossed, one hand rubbing his chin, thought for a moment. "We don't have hard winters here…I've never taken a mold in snow, either…" He indicated Porter Ames at the end of the driveway, "but, you know, the Sheriff has. He was a detective in St. Paul for years."

"St. Paul…Minnesota?"

"Yeah, why?" Strong was only half listening. He'd caught the Sheriff's eye and motioned him over.

Ames approached and stopped expectantly. "What's up, Pete?"

The Deputy squatted next to the clearest section of tire tracks. "We need to take molds of these impressions …neither of us has ever tried to pull molds in snow."

Quirking an eyebrow, Ames examined the fragile imprints. "So…snow isn't your thing, huh, Detective?"

"Don't look at me…I'm from Hot-lanta," Miranda shrugged.

Ames nodded and smiled. "I got something in my trunk…be right back."

Miranda fell in step beside the burly sheriff. "Pete tells me you're from Minnesota…"

xxx

Once she was done processing the footprints, Sara started on the perimeter. There wasn't much to see…no prints or wind blown trace, so it was no surprise when her mind started to wander.

Will Graham was turning out to be more than just Grissom's double. He'd been so sincere earlier when he'd approached her about being careful. She liked him; there was something genuine about him that pulled at her heart…and then there was that goofy sense of humor. Perhaps Grissom would pursue the relationship when this was all over. She hoped he would…they could both use a friend.

Fibers snagged on a branch caught her eye. She bent to collect and bindle them…looked like threads from army jacket…one of the kids who'd found the body had been wearing surplus fatigues…playing GI Joe, no doubt. Trace would have to confirm.

Her thoughts turned back to Will.

Graham certainly needed to find some way to let Molly rest. Sad that he was haunted by the ghost of what they'd had together…though he'd seemed better in the last day or two. Maybe working this case was healing, the way William had hoped…and seeing himself in Grissom…thriving on his work and living a full life…might be setting a good example. She smiled happily to herself, _"Certainly makes me happy."_

When a sudden breeze kicked up, Sara felt a chill run down her spine. Shivering, she pulled her jacket up around her neck and looked around to find Graham staring at her with his mouth hanging open.

xxx

Mason Robichaud whispered to Graham's retreating back, "Good luck, Will."

Feelings warred with his Detective's reasoning, a thousand thoughts competing for his attention.

They'd just gotten a valuable insight into their subject. The killer's focus was narrowing – that was good for them – less ground to cover trying to figure out where he would strike next.

But he never wanted the target to be someone he _knew_. Molly's memory bloomed in his heart…he'd tried to protect her all those years ago and ending up losing her. Would that happen to Grissom and Sara? Gut churning with worry, he wondered if Grissom could survive such a loss any better than he had.

His Profiler self was calmly intoning that it was always bad when a serial changed his pattern…all their logic about what his next move might be were useless: he had the upper hand for the moment. Graham himself, who'd come to admire Sara as a colleague and a friend, wanted to have Crawford issue him a weapon so he could help protect her.

Graham was halfway to Sara before he realized his mouth was still open. He closed it and turned over a few phrases in his head. Useless. There were no magic words he could pull out of his hat in a situation like this. Not with Sara.

The woman in question tilted her head and watched him approach. "Hey."

"Hey…finding anything?" Will fought the tightness in his chest…how could he tell her the killer knew her name?

Sara started to answer, "Yeah, I found a few…"

His face was stark with…something. The chill she'd felt earlier returned, making her shudder. "Will…what's wrong? Is it another body?" As crazy as that question was, it was all she could think of to match his expression.

"Sara…Mason found something and I need to show it to you."

Will was searching her eyes for…she couldn't imagine what. Her questions remain unasked. Uneasy, she followed Graham back across the scene to where Mason was kneeling next to the body.

Time stretched out as the three glanced nervously from one to another. Sara wanted to scream, but Mason's quiet words brought her up short. "I'm sorry, Sara…you need to see."

Robichaud waved her close. She knelt on the opposite side of the body while he pulled open the stiffening thighs of the corpse. "Look here," he pointed.

What Sara saw there made her stand abruptly, as if readying to run. Graham caught her upper arms. "It's not just a theory anymore, Sara." He gave a light squeeze. "Do you understand?"

Slack jawed, stunned, Sara nodded dumbly as she stared at her name burned into the victim's leg. Will released his grip and hugged her briefly.

Deadly serious, Graham bent to catch her eye. "Lark's game has changed, Sara…he's dreaming about you, now."

Mason suddenly felt exposed out in the middle of the Mission Hill back yard. His grisly discovery had put a new face on the investigation and he was horrified it was the face of someone he'd come to know and respect. Being out in the open didn't seem right somehow…for the first time since he'd been here he wished he was back in Baton Rouge pushing paper.

He was ready to move the body, so he asked Graham to help him cover it until transport could be arranged. Once Sara indicated she'd understood, Will took one side of the blue plastic sheet Mason held out to him. The body was quickly hidden from view – too bad knowledge of what lay hidden there could not be so easily dealt with.

Sara was still trying to form words when she heard car doors slam nearby and Grissom's unmistakable voice coming from the driveway as he greeted Miranda, Ames and Deputy Strong. Head bent, she closed her eyes as he came up behind them, unwilling to watch the distress that would boil across his features as soon as he heard the news.

Graham prayed the geek mind meld he'd been sharing with Grissom would fail this once… he did not want to be anywhere _near_ the man's thoughts when he saw Sara's name burned into the latest victim.

As Grissom approached the weird little tableaux, relief at finally getting to Sara bubbled up in his chest, evaporating almost immediately when he caught Sara's posture and Graham's face. Mason was studying his hands, so he zeroed in on Will and Sara.

The force of Grissom's concern was like a blow…Graham shook his head to clear it.

"Sara, are you OK?" He rushed to her, mentally ticking off boxes about her safety: not bleeding, clothes not in disarray, standing on her own... "My God, is there another body?" Grissom put an arm around her shoulder and she looked up at him, pale and tense.

Over her head, Graham explained, "No, not a body and Sara is _fine_." He took a deep breath. "There's been a new development, Gil."

Grissom followed Will's gaze as it flicked toward the body. Mason pulled back the sheet and pointed at the name branded on the woman's thigh. He bent to examine what looked like a burn.

Graham watched as Grissom stood bolt upright, took Sara in his arms and hugged her with all his might, as if the force of his personality could keep her safe from the world and the maniac who knew her name.

Sara allowed herself to melt into him for a moment before pulling back and trying to smile. "I'm OK, Griss."

He studied her expression, knowing her brave face for what it was. Slowly, seriously, he explained, "Sara, we have to get you off this scene. Lark's game has changed…he's thinking about you, now." Gently, he held his palm against her cheek. "It's not just a theory anymore."

She didn't even blink when he echoed Graham nearly word for word.

As they turned to leave, Grissom's thoughts tumbled out of him. "Jesus, Will…how did this happen?"

Graham shook his head. "Had to have been at one of the crime scenes…"

Their eyes met as the same thought occurred. "Sculpture Garden."

Gil searched the sky as he rolled the possibilities over in his head. "That implies long range observation…"

Frowning, Graham scanned the area around the crime scene. "We need to do a house to house…"

Sara continued to move forward numbly, flanked by Grissom and Graham. At the driveway, Miranda, Ames and Strong watched them pass curiously, not daring to ask what had happened.

When they reached the van, after a brief glance inside Grissom handed Sara up and climbed in behind her. Turning in the doorway, he grasped Will by the shoulder. "Until we get out of here, Sara is not to be left alone. You let the others know what's going on. Send William to relieve me in half an hour…and get started on that house to house."

Graham nodded grimly. When he turned, the rest of the Task Force was standing at the end of the driveway waiting for an explanation. With a sigh, he went to give them one.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 2:45 pm – Georgetown Inn – Washington, DC  
****

* * *

**

The lobby of the Georgetown Inn is decidedly Federal: intricate inlaid marble floor, soft gold jacquard print wallpaper, deep wainscoting in a rich cream, and a generous sized conversation area tucked behind a wall of small paned windows.

When Lisa King rolled in, the space was quickly filled with her presence. She wasn't a particularly pretty woman, nevertheless heads turned wherever she went. She had that indefinable 'it' quality in full measure with some to spare. That and a real instinct for the kill were the forces behind her very successful career at CNN.

Firing up the high wattage smile, King approached the clerk at Registration. "Lisa King for Dorothy Culpepper, please. I'm expected."

Her smile deepened as the poor clerk recognized her, then struggled to speak. "Uh…you're…oh, um…yes, ma'am. I'll let her know you're here." He lifted the phone and misdialed twice before finally getting the right number. No answer.

"I'm sorry, ma'am…Mrs. Culpepper isn't answering her phone."

King's expression immediately clicked over to 'sincere concern.' "That's odd. I was only just speaking with her while I was parking the car…I hope she's OK."

Unconsciously mirroring the concern on the reporter's face, Flustered Clerk offered, "Perhaps she's on her way down to meet you."

Realizing she needed to set the scene just so, she flashed another smile…this one with a hint of 'come-hither' in it. "You must be right. I'll wait over there in that little room off the foyer…you'll alert me as soon as she comes down, won't you?"

After a few minutes, Lisa was back to the Registration Desk. "You know, I'm a little worried…Mrs. Culpepper was expecting me…I think something might have happened to her. She is elderly, after all."

Flustered Clerk nodded sagely as King worked her magic. "Do you have a hotel doctor? Perhaps she's fallen…"

"I'll…I'll…uh…call the manager…and he can…he can…"

"Oh, that's just the thing," King beamed, patting the young man's hand. "Thank you ever so much."

Within minutes the hotel manager was leading Lisa King through the halls of his hotel, quite concerned about the possibility of a dead guest. He just hated it when someone died in his hotel. It only happened a few times a year; he was happy he'd be getting to this one before it started to smell. It took weeks to deal with that… His master key opened room 713.

"_Amazingly enough,"_ thought King triumphantly, _"Dorothy Culpepper IS passed out on the floor."_ The two rushed to her side trying to rouse her.

Alcohol fumes hung in the air. Lisa realized the manager knew Dorothy was only drunk and probably also knew her concern was an act, but he let it go. _"Maybe he wants to avoid and exposé on bed bugs in DC hotels…which would make a good story by the way."_ She filed that away for later consideration as Mrs. Culpepper started to come around.

A bit too loudly, the manager asked, "Ma'am…Mrs. Culpepper…are you all right?" Blinking and still stupid from drink, it took a moment for her to assess the situation.

Instantly mortified to be found in such a condition, Dorothy shook them off and stood using the vanity stool for support. She dared a quick glance in the mirror: her face was already purpling and one sleeve of her robe was torn at the seam, making her look as though she'd been in a fight.

Pulling the lapels of her robe together for propriety, she smoothed the fabric while she searched for her dignity. "I'm fine…I am fine…"

She caught a faint sniff of disgust from the man, likely the hotel manager, and straightened her posture. "I'm sorry…we have not been introduced. I am Dorothy Culpepper." She started to offer her hand, but changed her mind and gestured toward the floor instead. "I must have fainted and you came to my aid. I am grateful." She used her most gracious and formal tone.

Manners kicked in and he bowed slightly from the waist. "Rajeev Nadakaduty, at your service. I manage The Georgetown Inn. Do you need medical assistance, Mrs. Culpepper?" He took in the extent of her facial bruising, wondering if she would sue.

Immediately, her hand hid the bruised cheek. "No, I am all right, Mr…I have a…fainting disorder" She shrugged stiffly, gave him a slightly tremulous smile and batted her eyelashes. "It's distressing, but I am used to it."

Lisa King smiled to herself. _"I'll just bet you are."_

"Well, if you are uninjured, I will leave you with your guest." He paused with his hand on the door knob. "Do not hesitate to call if I may be of assistance." With a cold little smirk for Dorothy and a nod to King, he faded quickly, leaving the two women alone. It was a shame he had to put up with such guests in his beautiful hotel.

Dorothy stood uncomfortably for a moment before looking Lisa King up and down, "And who might you be?"

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 3:00 pm – Massaponax, VA  
****

* * *

**

Justice Lark was in the floating time…after ejaculation he felt deep, sublime comfort and peace. But no matter how he tried to stay in that blissful state, it always faded too soon, letting sharp edged and noisy reality crawl back into his body, jangling every nerve.

He didn't bother to clean up, but squeezed a bit more slick stuff into his palm and closing his eyes, caressed himself carefully…preparing for the next round. He knew from experience he could go for hours…and if he had hours with Sidle today, well, that might tide him over until they were properly introduced.

New voices from the yard pulled him out of his daydream. He already had a half chub working, so he peered out the window, hungry for another glimpse of Sidle. That would get things rolling again…

Justice could not believe his eyes. One of the Iron Gray twins was holding her. She spoke to the man briefly before pulling away and turning her back on him in his attic roost. How could she allow someone else to touch her?

Too close. She was standing way too close to Iron Gray now. He could feel her sensuous aura all the way up here…that close it must be almost impossible to resist…_he_ could never resist…

Out of nowhere, the other Iron Gray appeared and he touched her, too. Hugging her…her breasts…breasts meant only for _him_ were pressing hard into another's chest.

He dropped his cock, hands unconsciously clenched into fists.

Venomous wrath filled him right down to the spaces between his cells. His thoughts were a savage stream. "When I'm done with her…when I've fucked her…fucked her 'til she bleeds…fucked her to _death_…then she'd know the meaning of pain…and punishment…"

He stole another look out the window. They were still down there…locked in each other's arms. It went on and on and on…

"_NO!"_ shrieked from every pore, but thankfully not his mouth. He was too good at clinging to the shadows to give himself away with an inopportune cry.

Eyes burning, he stared at three small figures, Sidle sandwiched between identical men. Rage ripped through him again, shredding all the good feelings he'd collected that day. When the little group walked down the drive and out of sight, tears blurred them further until all he could see were meaningless shifting shapes.

"Ss…ssi…Sidle…she _can't_ be gone so soon," he moaned pitifully. "It should have been _longer_…I still _need her_." The words were like ground glass in his mouth. Frustrated desire flooded his gut with pain.

Hot tears scored his cheeks as Justice mourned his loss in fits and starts around his thrashing fury. Loss had defined his life and he had lost again. He had not forgotten…he would _never_ forget.

Betrayed.

Betrayed _again_.

Always betrayed by people he loved.

When they finally found Lark's lair, a dozen torn handfuls of cum soaked pink fiberglass insulation littered the floor near the window.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 20 to follow shortly._**


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This chapter has been immeasurably improved by the insights and generosity of my good friend, **mingsmommy**. Thank you, Lisa, for loving this story so much, and helping me meet my deadline. I'd have gotten there, but it wouldn't have been nearly so much fun, nor enlivened by your gifts.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 5:00 pm – CNN News Network – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Lisa King blew into the studio like a small, deadly whirlwind and, similar to a sudden storm, left a wide swath of disorder in her wake. Everyone in the Washington bureau knew she was angling for a transfer to Atlanta and eventually, an anchor spot. She'd been around long enough for them to know her ambition was a foregone conclusion…and since she was an 'ends justify the means' kind of gal, people scattered whenever she was on a big story for fear they would soon be wearing her footprints all over their backs.

_No one_ was going to prevent her from wringing every drop of opportunity out of her three exclusive interviews.

King poked her head in the doorway of Alan Burrows' office. "Who've you got editing my stuff? I might have a suggestion or two…"

Alan started, "Lahiri...he's in…"

Frowning, Lisa shook her head and interrupted. "You _know_ how I hate working with him…he doesn't get me."

"Oh, he gets you all right…" A tiny satisfied smirk lifted Burrows' lips.

Ripples of annoyance radiated from the doorway. "Alan…"

"Lisa, look. Murad Lahiri is senior editor here. This is a big story. I _had_ to give it to him." Burrows, usually indulgent of his best reporter, put on his authority hat to let King know further argument was unwelcome. "Use your charm to get what you want out of him…but get it done. I want promos on the air by six."

"You got it," she said absently. Already focused on getting her way with Lahiri, King smiled prettily and went in search of her new adversary.

Burrows sighed and went back to his paperwork. _"I will be so glad when she gets that transfer..."_

xxx

King stood behind the video editor as he was cutting her interviews. "I want to do a very choppy cut on this sequence…if you clean it up too much, it loses all the impact."

Murad Lahiri was in no mood to surrender. "This is not _Law & Order_, Miss King. Dramatic editing has no place in the newsroom."

"Oh, come on…this isn't 'the news'…this is a 'special report.' At most you can label it news-like. We _want_ to pour on the drama…that's the only way to capture the audience." She sat next to the stubborn man, tenting her fingers and gazing toward the ceiling as she crafted her response. "Our message is 'remember these poor girls…and raise hell until the police come clean.'"

Lahiri raised one eyebrow and eyed King speculatively. "That is our message?"

"It is," she nodded with her most sincere expression. "As the very sober and socially conscious Mr. Fred Grey told us, 'the public has a right to know.'"

Rolling his eyes, Murad again concentrated on the video editing console. "As I recall, the very sincere and socially conscious Mr. Fred Grey almost pulled out because he thought he might lose his job…until someone offered him $500."

Lisa leaned close as images of Dorothy Culpepper started to flicker across the screen. "Honoraria are not unheard of in cases like this…OK, stop…see her hand shaking? Keep that in…oh, and that next bit, too."

A close up of Mrs. Culpepper paused on the screen. "You can see the bruising under her makeup there…you want to _keep_ that?"

Lisa King rose, patting her colleague on the shoulder. "Murad…this is all about the money shot. We've got sex, we've got murder…a potential cover up…a banged up old lady distraught about her son the FBI agent who may or may not have killed a bunch of hookers…this is GOLD. It hints at a story behind the story…and if we leave just enough for the viewers to pick up as 'clues,' we'll have a million requests for updates and I get good marks in the nightly numbers."

Rising, she went toward the door. "Trust me, Murad…this is the way we want to go." With a grin worthy of a great white, she sauntered off toward her office.

Grimly following directions, Murad grumbled, "Bitch."

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 6:30 pm – Aquia, VA****

* * *

**

Before going back to DC, Jack Crawford made arrangements with the State Police to do a house to house in the Mission Hill neighborhood. Chances were slim surrounding neighbors had seen anything, even less that they'd run up on Justice Lark. But if, as Grissom and Graham suspected, Lark had been watching the scene, even an abandoned hideaway would give them valuable information about their killer. Trooper Manny Mendez, already on scene to relieve one of Porter Ames' deputies, took the lead.

When Mason Robichaud released the body at the Mission Hill scene, he caught a ride back to FBI Headquarters with Jack Crawford. He felt an urgent need to do the post himself. Plus, he'd had an idea he wanted to discuss privately with the Director...a way to differentiate the twins' DNA.

Miranda shadowed Sheriff Ames, guessing correctly that he'd maintained law enforcement contacts in Minnesota. Under the circumstances, they could use as many eyes in the state as they could muster. Pleased to be doing something active on these cases, Ames agreed to give Miranda a lift back to the Academy compound after he'd rifled his Rolodex at home. Maggie Ames put an extra plate on the table and prepared to listen to her husband's war stories for the millionth time.

The rest of the Task Force clambered into the van, too upset by recent developments to discuss the case. Grissom sat in the rear with an arm around Sara, who seemed very far away. Neither spoke on the drive back to Quantico. Exhausted, they excused themselves quickly and asked to be dropped at the dorm.

William Foster tried to get his dad to accompany him for supper, but Graham begged off. In truth, eating was the last thing on his mind. Foster gave up reluctantly, worried that Will's supper would be liquid and 80 proof.

The young agent parked the van near their cars. Upset and tired, they picked their way carefully across the slick parking lot. "I'm going on home, then…I'll grab something on the way. I should be home by 6:30 if you want to…you know…talk or anything."

Graham unlocked the rental and sat heavily in the driver's seat, one leg left hanging outside the door.

William paused, waiting for Will to say something. "Dad? You OK?"

Slowly, Graham responded to the worry in Willy's voice. "Sure…I'm fine, Son…just tired. I think I'm going straight to bed when I get back to the hotel." When he turned, the expression on his face told William everything he needed to know and it had nothing to do with fine or all right.

"Dad…"

Will forced a smile. "William, I'm troubled about what happened today, but I'm OK." He sighed tiredly, "I'm going straight to bed, I promise…look, call me in the morning and we'll meet for breakfast at the Route One Diner."

Foster nodded uncertainly. He'd heard lies like this a hundred times, but he still didn't know what to say. Bowing to the inevitable, he sighed. "I'll meet you there at seven, 'kay?"

Graham grimaced, "You're killin' me, Willy." The hope in his son's eyes hurt his heart. Relenting, he tried to laugh. "Oh, all right…seven it is. Good night, Son." Pulling in his leg as he closed the door, he fired up the rental. With a little wave, he was rolling off toward the main gate.

Willy stood for a long time watching as the car grew smaller and finally vanished from sight.

xxx

Two cycles of the light at the Route 1 intersection came and went before someone behind him, impatient to get home, finally stood on their horn.

Startled out of his thoughts, Will Graham stepped on the gas. The car stalled in a cloud of blue smoke. A string of cars wove around him while the light was still green, leaving him aggravated with a flooded engine and a decision to make.

The Aquia Days Inn, his home away from home, was a little more than seven miles to the south. Decision made, he got the car restarted before the light changed again and headed north to Dumfries, home to nothing much except the closest liquor store.

xxx

Some hotels pamper their guests with chocolates at turn down and complimentary newspapers. The most Graham could hope for at his Days Inn was a working ice machine on the first and third floors and a paper ribbon on the toilet seat.

Will Graham sat on the edge of his bed, toed off his shoes and reached for the phone. "I'd like a wake up call at six in the morning, please…yes, and make sure you let it ring. Sometimes I have a hard time waking up. Thank you."

After giving the remote a thorough workout, Graham realized the program selection hadn't improved in the four days he'd been here. Powering off the set, he found a light rock station on the clock radio which he proceeded to ignore.

All he wanted was background noise anyway. Just like the dogs he'd left at home on Marathon Key, to him a quiet house was a scary house. Memories thrived on quiet…and stillness. He endeavored to be neither.

_What a miserable fucking day. When was the last time he'd had any sleep? At least 36 hours. Not sleepy now, though. Not after what he'd seen burned into that woman's thigh. Jesus. The depth of this guy's depravity was terrifying._

He looked over at the makeshift bar he'd set up on the dresser. Fresh ice glittered in the bucket and the motel-supplied plastic glasses were standing at attention, ready for service.

_The look on her face…he would never forget the look on Sara's face when she saw her name. It reminded him of something…what was it? He'd been trying to bring it up all afternoon, though he suspected he didn't really want to know. _

Will got up and eyed the fifth of Old Crow glowing innocently under the lamp on the bureau. Not his usual Jim Beam, but the cheapest rotgut he could find. At $7.95 a liter, it probably tasted like shellac…on a good day.

_Oh Christ…Molly. That was how she looked when she realized she'd lost her battle with cancer. His better half…sweet sweet Molly. Sara would have liked her…_

He'd had some half assed idea that if he bought bad booze, he wouldn't down the whole bottle. Now he realized Jim Beam tasted like shit, too – he drank it because it was the quickest way to get from Point A to Passed Out.

…_but he'd lost her…_

The only time he'd _enjoyed_ drinking was with Molly and that was some off brand gin they'd liked. He couldn't bear to use it now…not for this.

_That strange mental connection he'd shared with the Las Vegas CSI vanished the moment Grissom understood Sara was in real danger. The withdrawal was logical, but as weird as that connection was, he missed it now…it had been a comfort, really…a thin barrier between him and…_

_Alone in his head again, Molly seemed especially close and yet irretrievably lost. Pain he'd kept at bay for the last few days flooded in, unbearable as the day she'd died._

Current pop tunes droned in the background, spiced up by the occasional oldie. Graham noted those idly and resumed his uneasy thoughts, quite able to keep separate mental tallies of classic singles, evidence and memories…

_Unforgettable, that's what you are  
Unforgettable though near or far  
Like a song of love that clings to me  
How the thought of you does things to me  
Never before has someone been more…_

Years ago, before Crawford had come to him on Marathon Key with pictures of two slaughtered families, he and Molly had danced to that father/daughter duet at Lamb's Tavern. She'd giggled as he'd sung to her.

Pokey Lamb, chuckling from his spot behind the bar, had turned on the disco ball. The old coot's mistaken idea he could turn his dive into a hot spot by going disco had, mercifully, died a quick death but the mirrored globe remained, throwing hundreds of stars around the room. In Molly's eyes…in her golden hair…on her skin…he remembered wanting to kiss every mote that touched her. Later, at home, he had.

Graham's pocketknife was out, slicing neatly through the tax stamp on his fifth of Old Crow. Half a tumbler burned down his throat. He'd guessed right…the booze was awful and tasted like turpentine. It didn't matter. By the time he killed the bottle, he'd have escaped…for awhile.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 7:00 pm – DC City Jail – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

The waiting room at the DC City Jail was clean but tired: brightly colored vinyl-upholstered couches sporting many duct tape repairs, a few mismatched chairs, formica topped coffee and end tables holding possibly prehistoric magazines falling to pieces… at least it didn't reek of urine and rage. A guard poked his head in the door. "We're bringing him up…give us a few minutes then come down to Interrogation Room B."

"Thanks." Jack Crawford checked his watch and frowned thoughtfully at Mason Robichaud "OK…explain it to me again…antibody titers?"

The Louisiana State Medical Examiner went over the science again. "When you have an illness, your body fights the infection with antibodies. Once the illness has passed, antibodies keyed to that specific infectious agent remain, protecting you from re-infection."

Jack was impatient. "Yeah, yeah…I've got that part…some kinds of protection last for years…"

Mason smiled indulgently as he relaxed into the Day-Glo orange couch, "Do you remember reading about the government's concern that adults vaccinated against smallpox in childhood might not maintain their immunity to the disease?"

Still irritated at Robichaud's slow Southern style, Crawford jumped in. "Yes. Something about a research sample…"

Mason nodded. "Birmingham England, 1978. There was an accident at a research laboratory. Smallpox virus broke containment and a woman who contracted the disease died. The man responsible for the release committed suicide…" He paused, remembering. "I knew the man, Henry Bedson…hell of a nice guy…couldn't live with himself…"

Crawford, still trying to move the story along, sat forward in his rickety folding chair, "After that, all stocks of the virus were destroyed except those at the CDC and a single, heavily guarded facility in Russia, though they've all been slated for destruction since 1993." Jack swallowed, uneasy. "Along came the 2001 anthrax attacks…we started wondering what would happen if weaponized smallpox ever got out."

"Exactly!" Robichaud continued. "Because smallpox is considered eradicated, our entire adult population might be at risk if their vaccinations have more or less expired. Millions could sicken and die." He shrugged helplessly. "We just don't know…which is where antibody titers come in. Taking an antibody titer is a way to determine if a person is still protected from a specific antigen."

"I still don't see how that relates to our case." Exhaling, still impatient, the Director begged, "Come on, Robby...just spit it out."

Robichaud patted the younger man's hand with a tolerance born of maturity and a less stressful career. "Antibody titering is not common in forensics…in fact, I don't know of a single case…"

Crawford rolled his eyes.

The coroner droned on. "But, it is routinely done on researchers who work with certain infectious agents…to determine their level of exposure so they can protect their health…"

Jack's worn out tolerance boiled over. "MASON!"

"You don't see it…the application here?" Robby asked, just a little smug.

"NO!"

Mason caught and held Jack's gaze. "We have separated twins with identical DNA…how do we tell them apart? Well, what are the chances they both have had exactly the same exposures over their entire lives?" Pausing for a moment, he watched as understanding lit Crawford face. "Based on my experience, I'd say zero. Antibody titers will tell us who's who."

Checking his watch again, Crawford stood, relieved and grinning hugely. "Did you bring your kit with you?" he asked, looking around for a doctor's bag.

Robby patted his inside breast pocket and got to his feet. "I'm ready…let's go see Rick Culpepper."

xxx

Their subject was waiting for them in Interrgation Room B, seated and sneering, ready for a fight. "H'lo, Jack…brought some more of the third string with you?"

Crawford sat and clasped his hands in front of him. "Cool it, Rick…you remember Dr. Robichaud?"

Culpepper eyed the older man. "How's it hangin,' Robichaud?"

Jack Crawford shot out of his chair and, putting both hands flat on the table in front of him, let his agent have it with both barrels. "What the FUCK is wrong with you?" The Director roared directly in his agent's face. "We are trying to clear your ass and you have antagonized everyone trying to help you…knock it off!"

Blinking stupidly, Rick swallowed and started to speak. Crawford cut him off. "I got a detailed report of your last performance. Jesus, Rick…I still can't believe the things you said to Grissom…vile, lewd, disrespectful…" His expression changed from anger to disgust. "And what you said about Sidle?…I would have torn your head off."

The agent laughed, amused. Crawford brought both fists down on the metal table with such force the room rang with it. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Feeling he finally had Culpepper's attention, Jack lowered the volume of his voice, but not the intensity. "Are you not familiar with the FBI Code of Conduct? I'm sure you are because the last time I got dinged for your behavior, I made you memorize the fucking thing…do you WANT to be an agent?"

Serious at last, Rick stared at his hands. "My career is over…you know that, Jack."

"Not if you're innocent…and you _are_ innocent, right?" The Director backed off slightly but maintained his position towering over the agent.

"You know I am."

Crawford softened. "Well, get your head out of your ass and help us…help yourself."

Chastened, Culpepper sat straighter in his chair. "What do you need me to do?"

Crawford sat again, once again his imperturbable self.

Dr. Robichaud pulled out several empty tubes, a rubber tourniquet and a sterile packet containing a blood collection needle while Crawford explained how they might be able to distinguish his DNA from that of his twin. "We're going to have you fill out a questionnaire about diseases you've had, things you've been vaccinated for…that'll be over here tomorrow." All eyes watched as Culpepper's blood filled tube after tube, knowing unique cells inside might lead to the agent's freedom.

Samples taken, pressure bandage applied to prevent bruising, Mason stashed the filled tubes in his breast pocket. "I've got everything I need, Jack. I'll be outside…" He paused and added cryptically, "There's a young lady waiting for me, you know."

Crawford nodded, knowing he needed to get Robby back for his autopsy.

The two men, mentor and student, stared at one another. Finally, Crawford offered, "You know, the only people pulling for you, besides your mother, are Grissom and Graham…" When Culpepper looked away, Crawford snapped his fingers loudly. "Hey…you would do well to remember that. They don't like you, but they never thought you were good for this. Everyone else…_even me_…thought the DNA made this an open and shut case."

Rick made a face but said nothing.

"They're the best, Rick." When he'd waited a few moments for an acknowledgment that was obviously not coming, he opened the door and gestured for the guard to return Culpepper to his cell.

Rick Culpepper plopped down on his bunk. He didn't even hear the cell door slam: he was too busy trying not to gloat. He did not succeed. _"I'm getting out of here…I'm going to get out of here and show them how to catch a killer. But first, I need to get laid."_ Mental images of the delectable Sara Sidle drifted through his thoughts. _"And I know just who I want to welcome me home…'I'm out to make it with my midnight dream, yeah…cause I'm a back door man…'"_

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 7:00 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Every monitor in the video wall was tuned to Fox Channel 5, 'Special Report' scrawled across each screen in red.

"_It appears there is another victim in the series of murders plaguing our area…"_

Justice Lark didn't hear the rest of the story. His eyes were glued to the aerial shots of his crime scene. There was the house on Mission Hill Drive, a scattering of police cars, lights twirling madly, and people…people milling around outside the yellow tape…people working inside the tape.

A fortuitous zoom…and there she was.

Sidle…

Sidle bending…

Sidle in the arms of the first Iron Gray…

Sidle apart…

Tears slid down his face when the film showed the Iron Grays on Sidle's left and right as they disappeared down the driveway.

It had been an almost perfect day…the Messenger had been placed with no trouble and plenty of time to observe and…appreciate his work. He'd spread her so prettily in that picture perfect snow scene.

On screen, the film loop brought Sidle to him again…his breath quickened even as lust stirred in his belly. Sidle…tall, slender, miles of legs leaping up to that perfect ass…oh, and she'd been wreathed in a frosty cloud of her own breath. That had been simply delicious.

Red and swollen hands clenched where they soaked in ice water. But now it was all over…they'd ruined it…_she'd_ ruined it. Splinters of fiberglass from the insulation he'd destroyed was all he'd come away with. There was nothing else he could have done…they'd led her away…before…before he was finished…

The large bowl in his lap smashed on the floor, sending water, ice, and shards of glass in all directions. He'd find her. No matter where she was, he'd find her. Vainly he tried to wipe his running nose with the back of a throbbing hand.

An image jumped across the screen, a breath of desperate hope in a sea of betrayal. One of the Iron Grays handed Sidle into a van. Clumsily, he stopped the live feed and ran it back, moving forward frame by frame. There was writing on that van. What did it say? Wait…he zoomed in. Fuzzy letters resolved themselves. FBI Academy.

Lark pulled his laptop closer and called up MapQuest. Slowly, letter by letter, he typed in his search parameters. Destination: Quantico, Virginia.

**Saturday, January 6, 2007 – 7:00 pm – Quantico, VA****

* * *

**

Sara stood wrapped in Grissom's arms beneath a scalding shower, trying to get warm. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough hot water in the world to thaw the memory of what she'd seen that afternoon.

Grissom gently pulled her wet hair aside. "Soap?"

Sara grasped his hand and brought it down to complete the circle around her middle. She couldn't resist massaging his forearms, "Just a little longer…please."

It was a long time before the hot water ran out.

xxx

Warmer and dry, the couple worked together stripping their makeshift bed.

Sara opened one of Grissom's Target sheet sets. "Thank you for buying these…I don't think I could stand to sleep on dirty sheets tonight…"

Once the bed was made, they stood awkwardly on either side of it, not quite sure how to be with each other. They'd hardly spoken since getting Lark's special message, opting instead to simply stay close.

Grissom tried to make conversation. "You know, I can't remember the last time we were here…when was that? Yesterday?"

Sara fiddled with the edge of the top sheet still in her hand. "Um…this morning…but we haven't slept here since the night before…"

The quiet they'd wrapped themselves in had become silence, and now it loomed over them like a shadow. Shock gave way to fear, weighing them down and suffocating them.

Grissom watched her carefully, but Sara could not meet his eyes. He sighed heavily and she finally raised her head.

"Stop it," she said quietly.

His eyes widened, "Stop what?"

"Stop treating me like…like he's got me…stop treating me like it's just a matter of time," she swallowed hard, fighting for control. "Stop treating me like I'm dead already."

His breath left him in a rush. "God, Sara! No!" He rounded the bed and grabbed her shoulders. "Sweetheart, no." She felt him shake her slightly, or maybe he was just trembling and it felt like a shake, before he wrapped her in his arms. "I don't think that…I'm scared, yes." He shook his head, "I don't think I've ever been this terrified in my life. But I'm thinking of how to…" He squeezed her tightly to him. "I swear to you, I will keep you safe. He will not get to you. I swear."

They stood there just holding each other with the truth and their fear beating in the air around them, but safe…safe for now…in each other's arms. After awhile she drew back and looked in his eyes. "Make love to me, Gil."

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Sara, I can't. I can't pretend this isn't happening. I can't pretend…"

She placed her hands on his cheeks. "Look at me, Griss." He sighed, opening his eyes reluctantly. "I'm not asking you to pretend. I just…I need to feel you right now."

"God, Sara…I'm frightened out of my mind. I don't know if I can even think of anything…" He was interrupted by the soft press of her lips against his.

She moved down to kiss his chin, the line of his jaw, his neck, asking between presses of her lips to his skin, "Do you love me?"

Closing his eyes again, he wrapped his arms more tightly around her, savoring each touch of her mouth against him. "More than anything or anyone." His voice wavered. "I never knew…I never knew it was possible to love this much."

She pressed her mouth back to his, again, softly. "Show me."

He started by pressing her palm against his cheek and finished by lifting her into his arms. Gently, he placed her on top of the crisp white sheets, partly covering her body with his. "Shhhhh…"

"Show me." She kissed him again. "Show me you love me."

He met her anguished eyes and started to speak, but she pressed soft fingers to his lips. "Show me I'm still alive."

**Saturday, January 7, 2007 – 1:00 am – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

At last, time to sleep after a long day. The twins lay in their beds, images from the last 18 hours swimming behind their eyes. Exhausted, sleep would not come.

There was only one way to put the day to rest…for both of them, a physical release brought peace and comfort and Blessed, Blessed sleep.

Identical desires…well, almost identical. Separated by no more than a few miles, the twins mirror one another's movements. First the feather touches that tease and excite. Lubricant is next…makeshift for one but not the other. There is nothing quite like the first slick strokes…cool and wet and full of promise.

Mental images from the day fade…instead there is the curve of her ass, that smile partly hidden behind a cascade of silken hair…wide, wide eyes offer an invitation soaked with desire…

Even their rhythm is the same: despite one's recent wounds, desire prevails. Slow and purposeful movements speed to match their racing hearts and when they climax, they cry out the same woman's name.

They are so much alike – right down to their taste in women – but only one twin dreams of a living woman. For the other, she is quite dead.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 22 to follow shortly_**


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gill Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:** My apologies for this chapter appearing late. Events in my life conspired to delay its completion._

_Dead Ringer has appeared weekly on Fridays since Thanksgiving 2006. I need to take a short break, so **Chapter 23 will be posted on Friday, May 4**. I'll return to weekly posting at that time. I hope you will all understand and stick with me during the hiatus._

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 8:30 am – Aquia** **VA  
****

* * *

**

William Foster did not sleep well. Memories of his mother wove in and out of his dreams…laughing as they collected shells at home on the beach…grimly facing their first winter at his grandparents' ranch in Montana after the divorce…struggling for breath at the end as the cancer that had metastasized to her lungs had squeezed the life out of her. He woke in a sweat, missing her and wondering what kind of night Graham had had.

The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him his dad had not surrendered to his own sad dreams, but the nothingness of a bender. Another kind of grief pulled at him then…as time passed, the ache of losing his mother was becoming easier to live with, but the pain of Graham's periodic descents from the wagon just went on and on.

He stepped out of his townhouse into the frozen stillness of an early Sunday morning. Bright sun and bitter cold mirrored his hope and dread: would Graham be waiting for him at the restaurant? Terrible odds…he wouldn't take that bet.

William headed over to the Route One Diner. At that time of day, he snagged a booth facing the door so he could see Graham when he arrived…if he arrived. Seven o'clock came and went. By 7:30, he was pulling out of the quickly filling parking lot on his way north to Aquia and whatever was waiting for him at The Days Inn.

xxx

Will Graham did not sleep well. He didn't sleep at all, actually, as passed out did not count as sleeping in his book.

When he opened his eyes, it took a few minutes to orient himself. Tiny tiles, paper thin bathmat, ceramic screw cover near the base of the toilet…_ "Oh, right…sick…"_

A persistent buzzing was what had finally awakened him. After Graham sat up and looked around the room for aerial adversaries, the buzzing started again. He'd slapped at his thigh several times before it occurred to him the noise was coming from his phone.

Getting painfully to his knees, a wave of nausea hit him as he braced himself on the toilet for leverage. Old Crow was every bit as vile coming back up as it was going down.

_"I am never drinking again…ever…" _

Loud knocking stabbed at his brain. "Dad…are you in there? Dad!"

The only thing that could have dragged Graham away from the toilet at that moment was the hope of getting the noise to stop. Every blow rang through the bones in his head, making him need to vomit again.

Will finally made it to the door and threw up all over his son.

xxx

It was a good thing Willy and his dad were about the same size because his clothes were a total loss, right down to the shoes.

"I am so sorry…I'll get them cleaned for you, Son," Graham sighed miserably.

William stood in the area just outside the bathroom as he finished buttoning a well worn chambray shirt, watching his dad slumped on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. He really didn't know how to feel, so at that moment he felt nothing. At one time he would have been broken hearted. No more. He'd seen it too many times for this instance to be different from the other times he'd found his dad trashed and remorseful.

For Graham, this was the nadir of his alcoholic life. Before it had been when he'd been so drunk Willy had had to practically carry him to the funeral home to make Molly's final arrangements. He'd been only sporadically drunk since then…on days when the thought of living without her was only manageable through a bourbon haze. He was feeling better…he _was_ better, but yesterday…yesterday had been too much. Naked…raw…the only way to put out the fire was to drown it with drink.

And now…actually throwing up all over his son was exponentially worse than anything he'd ever done before.

The smell of vomit hung in the air despite the moist and fragrant steam left over from Willy's shower. He wanted to moan out loud but didn't feel he deserved any voice for his misery. No relief…no outlet. He wanted to die.

Perhaps the silence was worse. He'd have preferred screaming to his son's sober silence.

Blearily, he glanced at Willy, reading every measure of sorrow he'd heaped on the boy. _"This is when people commit suicide,"_ he thought idly. _"They feel like this and they can't take it anymore."_ Ashamed, he closed his eyes and waited for Willy to leave.

A warm arm was laid across his shoulders at the same time he felt Willy's body ease down next to his where he sat on the edge of the bed. He was frozen for a moment, torn between pushing him away and laying his head in his son's lap.

William rubbed Graham's back. "Dad, there's an AA Meeting at 9:00 in Fredericksburg. I'll take you if you want to go."

Will dared a look at his son…his step-son who he loved like his own…and was astonished to see love in the younger man's face. Even now, after all this, Willy was still beside him.

Will Graham was not a religious man, but he'd just seen a miracle he could not deny. He got the message and accepted it for the Grace it was. "I want to go."

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 9:00 am – Somewhere in Washington** **DC  
****

* * *

**

Justice Lark wandered out of his kitchen into his command center, small plate with a bran muffin and a thick pat of butter perched over his mug of coffee. Once seated he cut open the piping hot muffin, pausing to suck on his throbbing fingers where the steam licked at them while he prepared his breakfast. Taking a huge, sweet buttery bite, he fired up the media wall and came face to face with Dorothy Culpepper on the CNN screen.

_"My son did not murder those women. I have faith that he will be completely cleared of these charges and the real killer brought to justice." _

A promo for Lisa King's special was running. The image of Ms. Culpepper faded as faces of recent Messengers opened like a fan over one another. The voiceover intoned:

"_Who is guilty of these crimes? We will re-air our special, 'We Have Not Forgotten,' at __6:00 p.m.__ eastern time tonight, featuring live talk-back with DC Police Chief Charles Davenport. Please tune in to keep your family safe." _

Partially chewed muffin fell into his lap. He struggled to swallow what was left, mouth suddenly dry. A sip of coffee didn't help…he nearly choked.

She'd changed so much…since that day at Easter Seals…

Is she here or did they find her in Minnesota?

Breakfast forgotten, joy at finally going national trampled to nothing, he fumbled for the remote and rewound the DVR. He played the promo again, this time on all screens. There was nothing more…just that clip of Dorothy saying _her_ son was innocent.

_"We will re-air our special, 'We Have Not Forgotten,' at __6:00 p.m.__ eastern ti… _

Re-air…it had been on before and he missed it?

The video wall blurred in a riot of faces and colors as Justice went back through hours of programming. Every so often the promo slid by backwards, making his stomach lurch again at the sight of her.

Finally he reached the proper hour. It was agony watching the program crawl past back to front. How long was this thing anyway?

He overshot and ended up stopping on a Dulcolax commercial. Shuddering, he slowly advanced the feed.

_"Good evening. This is Lisa King and welcome to 'We Have Not Forgotten' a special report about the recent murders in the __Washington__ metro area and a series of killings going back years…" _

He was too impatient to sit through a rehash of what he already knew…someone else's summary of his Life's Work…there would be time for that later. Fast forwarding again, he stopped on the first image of Dorothy Culpepper. Rewinding frame by frame, he found the beginning of Dorothy's segment: a stand up of Lisa King on a snowy sidewalk outside a brick building.

_"Dorothy Culpepper has come to __Washington__ to support her son…" _

She's here…his heart skipped a beat…close by…

xxx

Words were distracting. He'd made a loop of the Dorothy interview and was playing it endlessly, sound off.

So different…her hair was no longer dark and shiny but shot through with gray…her face had fallen a little, but you could still see that she'd been beautiful not so long ago…and though she was no longer willow thin as she'd been then…well, if you squinted a bit, age seemed to drop away…

_"How would you like a new box of crayons?" _

His head exploded in pain. Tears he hadn't shed when Honor backhanded him in the Easter Seals waiting room spilled down his cheeks.

"Mama…"

Some time later he focused on the screens again. A chill ran through him as he recognized his name on Dorothy's lips…he turned on the sound and backed it up a bit.

_"…the real killer brought to justice." _

He rewound again.

_"…brought to justice." _

And again.

_"… justice." _

His whisper was low and deadly. "Justice…we're all looking for Justice, Dorothy…we're just looking in different places."

Flicking off the video wall, he pulled his laptop close and typed in a search. Wouldn't she be surprised to learn who was looking her up after all these years.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 9:30 am – Quantico** **VA

* * *

**

She knew before she opened her eyes that he was awake. Not just awake, but watching her. She cracked one eye. "Didn't your mother tell you it's impolite to stare?"

"My mother taught me to appreciate beauty." He was on his stomach, hugging a scrunched up pillow, head resting on his arms. "And you are beautiful. Therefore, I am not staring, I am appreciating you."

She smiled and opened her other eye, doing some appreciating of her own. He still had what she privately called 'Sleepy Face' – his hair was tousled and his features were relaxed and unguarded. He always seemed more vulnerable…more real…to her in these moments.

She caressed his cheek. "How are you this morning?"

He captured her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. "Better. A little bit of sleep makes a big difference." He rolled to his side, snaking an arm around her. "How are _you_ this morning?"

She burrowed against him, snuggling into his warmth. She touched a cold foot against his leg and giggled at his hiss of displeasure. "Fine."

He grasped her firmly and rolled onto his back, bringing her to rest on top of him. "Yes, you are." A playful waggle of his eyebrows. "You always are."

She sighed and rested her head against him. "You're right…sleep helps." She kissed his chest. "Being with you helps more. It's not so…overwhelming…or scary today."

He hugged her tightly. "I'm still scared." He looked up at her. "I can't afford not to be."

"I'm right here." She met his eyes, trying to convey the depth of her love and trust with her gaze. "And I'm safe. I'm not going anywhere."

Grissom sighed. "Maybe you should."

"What?" Her brow furrowed.

"Maybe you should go home…back to Vegas."

"Gil…" She shook her head, firmly. "No."

"Sara, I really think this is something we need…" Her lips stopped him mid-sentence and the invasion of her tongue into his mouth stopped him mid-thought.

When she broke away several moments later, she began kissing her way down his chest. "No." Her tongue circled one of his nipples. "End of discussion."

His last coherent thought was that they would talk about it later.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 10:00 am – DC City Jail – Washington** **DC  
****

* * *

**

The Visitors' Room at the DC City Jail is orange and tan. Industrial beige floors and walls, and bright indestructible plastic chairs give the eerie impression of a law enforcement Orange Julius. The walls are ringed by a continuous Plexiglas barrier, complete with phones for communication. People who come to visit may sit quietly in the center of the room until their loved ones are brought in on the periphery.

Normally closed on weekends, regular visitation for inmates on week days is governed by the first letter of prisoners' last names: the schedule for A-H is to see family and friends noon to seven on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Dorothy Culpepper had been granted a special visit with her son – Director Crawford had seen to it personally.

When her nerves got the better of her she paced around the waiting area, modest heels clicking on the linoleum like a metronome. Dread beat out the same rhythm in her head: too late…too late…too late…

Commander Martin Prince entered the room and crossed to Mrs. Culpepper. "They're bringing him down now…you have an hour. Ask the guard to call my office when you're through and I'll escort you out of the building." His words were all business but his eyes were kind.

Dorothy tried to smile. "Thank you, Commander. I appreciate the efforts you have made on my behalf…"

The sound of a heavy door swinging open stopped her words. Looking toward it, she saw her son enter the prisoners' area. Grinning and waving, Rick sat and picked up the phone.

Marty Prince patted the woman's arm. "You have a nice visit, ma'am." He turned and left.

Dorothy smoothed her hair and shyly smiled back at her son, silently thanking the Blessed Mother…She was a mother, too, after all…who better to understand her agony? All is not lost…oh, thank you, Mother, all is not lost…

It was only as she got closer that his smile melted, replaced with a look she knew too well. The smile, that little wave…all an act. Was it so Commander Prince would continue to allow the visit or to keep her from expecting an ugly turn of events? Either way, she knew something cold and nasty awaited her. Terrified, she picked up the handset.

His voice was tinny and harsh. "I just wanted to say _personally_…unlike you…" His lips twisted into a sneer as her heart twisted in two, "…who delivered your little bombshell via remote control…that my mother is dead…"

Disoriented, confused, Dorothy longed for the relief of that flask hidden in her purse. Unthinking, she sputtered, "Dolores _is_ dead, honey, but I'm still…"

Rick's face went the deep purple of rage barely contained. "WHAT!?!" He stared at her, incredulous. He was her boy, but Roger sometimes lived in him: the arrogance, the flair for the dramatic. She'd ruined his little speech and she knew it. He would be even angrier now. Best to play stupid…

"Yes…my twin sister Dolores…she died some years ago…" she went on lamely. The words were coming out all wrong. She'd come here to apologize…to explain and to beg forgiveness. As she watched anger building in her son – the unforgiving glare, the set of his chin witness to his desire for retribution – hope slipped away. How could he look at her that way?

His voice was so quiet, she had to strain to hear him. "My entire life has been a lie. Me…ME. You have the nerve to come here after what you've done?"

Dorothy felt all the blood drain from her face. It was a struggle just to breathe.

Gradually, his voice rose, choked with emotion. "How many times did Dad tell me 'every crime starts with a lie'?" He blew out a breath. "What was the one _unforgivable_ sin in our house? TELLING A LIE!" His chin trembled with anger and pain. "You were there…"

Tears welled in his eyes, slipping down his cheeks unnoticed. She remembered his anguished face as a boy…

"You heard me scream when Dad whipped me with the fly swatter…you were always right outside the door." The boy he'd been peeked out, still hurting and confused. "Surely you remember the bleeding welts where he got me with the metal handle? I remember how much worse it was when you swabbed them with alcohol…"

Numbly, she nodded…he was right…it was awful.

Dropping the handset with a loud clack, he stood abruptly, working at the buttons on his pants. "Shall I show you the scars on the backs of my legs? My punishment for LYING?"

His sudden movements alerted one of the guards who started forward, nightstick ready.

Culpepper raised his hands so the guard could see. "Get out of here," he roared with such vitriol she swore she could feel the heat of his breath through the Plexiglas. "My mother is dea…_you_ are dead to me." Face red with rage, he stalked over to the advancing guard, "Get me out of here…" completely ignoring the weeping and broken woman huddled behind him in the chair.

xxx

She hardly thought of the silver flask in her purse as Roger's anymore. He'd been gone so long…and it was such a comfort to her. There's wasn't nearly enough gin in it to do the job today, but that nice young man at the hotel, the concierge, had brought her two fifths of Tanqueray and they were waiting for her in her room, like some cool green oasis.

When thoughts of her disastrous meeting with Rick rose in her mind, Dorothy clutched at her flask and burning gulps of gin beat them down again. That would do until she could drown them completely by passing out.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 11:00 am – Georgetown – Washington** **DC

* * *

**

Bright sunshine played off the storefronts on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. The sidewalks were gritty with salt and sand, but still a little slick in the shady spots. The curbs were choked with cars even on a Sunday morning, precious parking spaces stolen by piles of dirty snow.

Justice smiled. DC was heaven for double parking. No one would think twice about his van parked just down from the entrance to The Georgetown Inn. He'd been able to identify it from Lisa King's brief stand up out front. A phone call confirmed she was a guest, but out at the moment. All he had to do now was wait and he was good at waiting. Patience was a virtue, after all.

He thought back to that morning at Easter Seals, the first time he'd seen Dorothy Culpepper. She'd appeared like an angel that day…long hair and soft eyes…smelling faintly of lavender.

But it was the look on her face that captured him. _Wonder._ It was how he'd known that wasn't Mama…she never looked like that. He only ever saw that look now just before the Messengers went over, but it wasn't the same. He thought if he could see it again…that wonder, just for him…he might understand.

Confusion boiled up in his gut. Things were spinning a little too fast now, threatening to go out of control. He was so close. That bastard Culpepper was in jail, so why had he placed the last Messenger? Lust flared and he was erect instantly. Sidle…Sidle had distracted him and he'd done it to see her again. The Mission had transformed: it was all about Sidle now.

Lark pushed off from where he'd been leaning in doorway, needing to move. Hands deep in his pockets, rubbing himself through the fabric, Sidle filled him…called to him.

Ducking quickly into a fast food restaurant, Lark rushed to the men's room and relief. _She'd_ have that look…that look of wonder…delight, even…at _him_…_for_ him. Spittle and ejaculate covered his still tender hands as his breathing slowed. He allowed himself only a few moments to clean up before getting back to his post.

A quick call to the hotel assured him Dorothy hadn't slipped by while he was…distracted.

Back outside, the cold felt good on his heated face. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the street and double checked his van. Everything was set.

A Diamond cab pulled up in front of the hotel and a slightly wobbly Dorothy Culpepper emerged from the back seat. She stood motionless on the sidewalk when the car drove away. Lark was seized with the idea that she knew he was there.

He was at her side in seconds, gently grasping her elbow. "Hello, Dorothy. It's Justice…you've been looking for me?"

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 23 to follow on Friday, May 4._**

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:** My apologies for this chapter appearing late. Events in my life conspired to delay its completion. _

_Dead Ringer has appeared weekly on Fridays since Thanksgiving 2006. I need to take a short break, so **Chapter 23 will be posted on Friday, May 4**. I'll return to weekly posting at that time. I hope you will all understand and stick with me during the hiatus._


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 12:00 pm – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Kavi Ganesh edged into the lobby of the Georgetown Inn and approached Registration. The hotel manager, Rajeev Nadakaduty, was on the desk; he eyed the man in front of him carefully, knowing immediately he was not a guest. "May I help you, Sir?"

Ganesh, an elderly man with a wizened face but lively eyes, placed a handbag on the counter. "My last fare left this item in the back of my cab. I am certain she will be looking for it…would you see that it is returned to her?"

Taking the bag from the cabbie, Nadakuduty looked inside for identification. The wallet held ID as well as cash and travelers' checks: Dorothy Culpepper. "Ah, yes, Mrs. Culpepper is a guest in our hotel. She must be frantic…" He held up a hand as he dialed room 713. No answer.

Puzzled, he hung up and reached under the counter for a hotel notepad. "Mrs. Culpepper does not answer her phone. I will see to it that her bag is put directly into her hands." Seeing the disappointment on the old man's face, he gave the man paper and a pen. "Please write your name and phone number down so that I may let her know who to thank. I'd also like to call your superiors to let them know what a valuable service you performed for one of our customers."

As Kavi Ganesh was providing his contact information, the hotel manager opened the cash drawer and extracted a $50 bill. "Thank you for your honesty…" He read the cabbie's name upside down on the pad in front of him, "…Mr. Ganesh. I do not know if Mrs. Culpepper will offer you a reward, but please, accept this token on behalf of the hotel."

The old man accepted the money with a bow, handed Nadakuduty the notepad, and left the hotel smiling.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 1:00 pm – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Jack Crawford dozed at his desk. A rare shaft of warm winter sun had found him through the window of his office and sleepy from the beer he'd had with lunch, had drifted into a fitful doze. The pages from the report he'd been reading slipped from his fingers and settled in a drift at his feet.

Everyone had been going for days on the recent murders…the Task Force, his senior analysts…and everyone was taking a well deserved break. Except him.

He couldn't let this one go, which was why he'd dragged himself into town on a Sunday.

By the time the sun had tracked over his body to shine on the rich red carpet next to the desk, he'd made it to REM sleep. A cascade of dead and bloated faces tumbled through his mind, each one pausing just long enough for their eyes to plead mutely for justice. Even in sleep, the irony of the killer's name and the concept of justice made him grimace. _Be careful what you wish for…_

Waking with a start, Crawford looked around the office trying to place himself. When he saw the empty file folder in his hands, he remembered what he'd been doing and looked around for the report.

Edna Spivey entered the office to find Jack Crawford on his knees sorting through an untidy bundle of papers.

"Edna, new procedure…all reports are to have numbered pages from now on…" Hands full of paper, Jack looked up at his assistant. "Who puts together a 50 page report and doesn't number the pages? Jesus…" Grumbling to himself Jack stood and dropped the papers on his desk. Edna was looking at him like he'd grown a third eye. "And the next time I order a beer with lunch, tell me I can't have any."

Still a little shocked and more than a little amused, "But, it's Sunday, Mr. Crawford…"

"I don't care." Crawford plopped down into his chair and raked the papers toward himself. "No more beer for me."

"Yes, sir."

Quickly distracted trying to collate the mess in front of him, he didn't realize Edna was still standing there until she cleared her throat.

Looking up quickly, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Edna. Didn't mean to ignore you…"

"I tried to call Dorothy Culpepper at her hotel. There was no answer, but I did leave a message." She offered him a pink message slip. "The call time is there, along with the number in case you want to try again later yourself."

"Thanks, Edna." He took the note and set it on top of the file Mrs. Culpepper had left with him. Exhaling and starting to sort papers once again, he said absently, "Maybe she's still at the jail…"

"No, sir. She's not…" Edna bent to pick up a sheet he'd missed and handed it to Crawford. "I talked with Commander Prince…she left the jail after a very brief visit with Agent Culpepper."

Crawford inserted the page into the stack. He looked over the top of his glasses as he continued to collate. "Brief?"

Edna's voice was flat. "Commander Prince said the meeting was…" When she paused, debating whether to repeat Marty Prince's exact words, Jack filled in the blank.

"A disaster…shit." Crawford sat back in his chair and flexed his neck a few times before staring at the ceiling. "Don't tell me, let me guess…Rick was not happy to see her."

"No, sir."

"Jesus, Rick…she's your _mother,"_ Mumbling to himself, Jack picked up Mrs. Culpepper's number and handed it back to Edna. "Please keep trying…leave a message at the desk, too. I'd like to speak to her." When he noticed the bewildered expression on his assistant's face, he sighed, "I don't know what I'm going to say to her, but somebody needs to apologize to that poor woman."

He called out to her retreating back, "Buzz me when you get hold of her."

Once Edna Spivey had left his office, Crawford started sorting papers again, muttering. "Mrs. Culpepper, your problem child is a pain in my ass, too…a _BIG_ pain in my ass."

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 1:15 pm – Quantico, VA****

* * *

**

Graham paused half out of the car. "I'm, OK, Willy…please…" His words were cheerful but his face was still pinched and drawn. "I need to keep myself busy and thinking about these cases is preferable to rattling around my motel room thinking about throwing up on my son." The pained look on William's face cut him to the bone. "I'm sorry, Son…for a lot of things."

Foster reached out to touch his father's shoulder. "Dad…"

Warmth flooded through him like a balm. He had a lot of work to do, but he wouldn't have to do it alone. Graham smiled over his shoulder. "Pick me up at five? We'll have supper and talk…OK?"

Willy nodded, still worried. His dad looked terrible and he knew he was dealing with a monster hangover. "I'll see you at five."

Graham got out of the car, turned and leaned back inside. "Thank you, Willy…for today…" He intended to say more but choked up and couldn't speak.

The younger man smiled, understanding what was left unsaid. "I love you, too, Dad."

xxx

Conference room 1516 was dark when Graham got there. Relieved, he looked through a pile of reports and, picking one that didn't look too complicated, sat down to read.

Well, he wasn't actually reading. He was skimming while trying to sort through the mess of his life without really thinking about it. Over the years, he'd found he did his best not-really-thinking while immersed in something else.

He'd been at it about 45 minutes when Miranda walked in. One look told her he was in rough shape and not just from too much work and not enough sleep.

She took off her coat and sat next to him. "Hey, Will…"

Startled at first, he realized he was glad for the interruption as his thoughts had become disturbingly circular. He offered her a quick smile. "Hey, Miranda."

The Atlanta detective held up the file she'd brought with her. "I had a thought about tracking Lark…" Her voice trailed off as she studied him. Though he was clean and combed, he had a dissipated look. Unconsciously she sniffed, expecting to smell alcohol.

A little hurt but not surprised, his voice was toneless. "I'm off the booze, if that's what you're checking on."

Miranda sputtered with embarrassment. "I wasn't…no…Will…I didn't…"

Taking pity on her, Graham patted her hand. "It's OK. I had a bad night and a worse morning. I must look like hell."

"Well, now that you mention it…" She ventured a smile, "You look like the Wrath, Will."

"You should see it from in here, Miranda…but, I'm fine…really." He nodded toward the report she'd brought with her. "What have you got?"

Reluctantly, she allowed him to change the subject. She took a deep breath. "OK…you know how we've been trying to track Lark's movements…"

"Yeah…"

"Mason got nowhere with jobs…it doesn't look like he's had a regular job for years…so that's a dead end. Same with residences. This guy is like the wind…lives nowhere on nothing…"

Graham frowned. "That's not good news…"

"It's terrible news. I just can't believe this guy has no paper trail…too much in our lives requires proof of income and a fixed address…" Miranda stood and started pacing. "Sure, there's an underground economy based on cash, but this guy seems to have just evaporated when he was 19 years old. He dropped out of school and off the face of the earth? I don't think so."

"_She hasn't changed in 20 years,"_ thought Graham, amused, _"Always a live wire."_ He watched as she went over her idea, happy with herself. "So where did he go, Miranda?"

Excited, she sat back down at the table and patted her file, "Did you know that Honor Lark died in 1979?"

Will thought a moment. "Both of Justice's parents died in 1979, didn't they?"

Miranda grinned and passed Graham several sheets of paper. "Yes they did…and Dolores Lark fell off the tax roles in 1979. Why, then, do you suppose Honor Lark is still paying taxes?"

"You're kidding…" He examined the tax forms in his hand. 1980…1985…1992…1999…2005. "Jesus, you're _not_ kidding…you think Justice just took over his father's social security number?" he asked, thrilled at this possible lead.

"I think it's worth investigating…it fits, and it's a better lead than we had." Miranda sat back in her chair, enjoying Graham's surprise.

They spent the rest of the afternoon working the new angle, finding bank records, leases, property records…all the paper one would expect and all in the name of Honor Lark.

They took a break around three thirty. Graham bought mediocre coffee from the machine down the hall while Miranda worked up their notes.

Will remembered how close they'd been once...back when he was a hotshot profiler and she was a print tech itching to get out in the field. He'd admired her passion, her quick mind and that take-no-prisoners sense of humor. They were almost on the point of dating when life and crazy bastards like Hobbs and Lecter…and his subsequent struggle to deal with an imagination that took him places no one in their right would ever go…had intervened. He'd had to shut down. In the end, the only people he'd stayed connected to were Molly and Willy.

When that fell apart the bottle had been his friend. Some friend.

Now that he was re-examining his life, he realized a lot of people that wanted to be there for him if he'd only let them in.

Miranda felt him staring at her and turned to look at him. "What?"

"Miranda…" He paused, searching for the right words. "I'm sorry I shut you out for so many years…I…"

She tilted her head and smiled, "You were always a pain, Bayou Boy, but I like you anyway."

Graham looked down, uncomfortable. Lips pressed together in thought, jaw working, he took a deep breath and looked at her. "I made a new friend today, Miranda. Bill W…you know who that is?"

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Yes…yes, I do."

"I need all the help I can get, Miranda…I…uh…" His voice trailed off as he realized he didn't know what else to say.

"I'm here, Will…" She caught Graham's eye. "And you and Bill W.? I think you can get to be real good friends."

They sat together in silence, having said all they needed to say.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 1:30 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC****

* * *

**

He was in a dream, conscious of the present, but seeing the world as if overlaid with the past. Every time he looked at Dorothy he saw his mother. He'd expected that – they were identical twins.

But the mother he saw was a young woman…as she had been years ago…the same mother who haunted his dreams with comfort and temptation. The twinning made him blink and shake his head.

Upset and disoriented, he'd deposited her in the Playroom, fitted the straps carefully around her wrists and ankles, and covered her to the chin with a down blanket against the chill in the air. From his command chair he could still see her and breathe a bit more easily.

She was old now…but well preserved. Her hair was gray now. Once he pulled it down, he could see it was still long and thick…her skin was soft beneath the wrinkles and she'd kept her figure. It was her yet _not_ her…like a new painting smeared by careless hands…

_Eyelet nightgown…the scent of lavender…a soft sable curtain of hair closing around them as he'd clung to her...the resilience of her breast as she'd allowed him to suckle. "Mama's boy…Mama's big boy," she'd murmured, "still so hungry." _

Eyes drooping, he fondled himself gently, sneaking up on his lust this time, keeping it swaddled in the warm blanket of childhood. As he came he slipped seamlessly into his favorite dream.

In the next room, Dorothy was wrapped in a dream, too, but it didn't make her smile.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 1:45 pm – Quantico, VA****

* * *

**

Crisp air filtered through the window at the head of the bed, smelling of snow and just slightly of the diesel delivery truck that idled across the compound outside the Dining Hall. A little breeze stirred Sara's hair. Even in sleep she snuggled further under the blanket, trying to escape the cold licking at her bare skin.

Something was wrong. The furnace that was Grissom seemed to be missing from their bed. Rousing herself, she wakened enough to hear the shower running. Sitting up, Sara turned and slammed the window shut, then dove back beneath the covers.

Distant squeaking followed by the absence of rushing water let her know Gil had finished his shower. Waiting long enough for him to dry himself and walk back in the room, she raised her voice from her cozy hideaway, "It's freezing in here…you left that window open on purpose!"

He didn't have to see her face to hear the amusement in her voice. "If you don't get up soon, there won't be any breakfast left…" he warned, putting on clean pants and a flannel shirt.

The down blanket couldn't mask the sound of one of the desk chairs scraping against the floor.

"I went to the Dining Hall and brought back fruit and…"

Poking only the top of her head out of her cocoon, she sniffed cautiously. The unmistakable smell of pancakes drifted over and pulled her grumbling from the bed. Sara slipped on Grissom's wooly robe and looked under the bed for some socks. "They're probably cold by now…"

Doctoring two cups of herb tea, Grissom smiled to himself. "Nope…still hot…and they're going to go fast because I am very hungry, Miss Sidle…what with all the calories I burned last night and this morning."

Robed and socked, Sara was at his side almost immediately, ruffling his hair then staring open mouthed at his makeshift breakfast buffet. An aluminum tray hovered about 10 inches above the desk, supported on either side by a stack of books. Canned heat burned steadily underneath the metal tray.

"One of the cooks gave me a can of sterno." Grissom removed the lids from the plates on the buffet and set one in front of himself and the other in front of Sara. He pushed a package of syrup toward her. "Not real, but at least it's genuine maple flavored."

Sara pulled up the other desk chair and snagged the syrup. "Yum." Once the pancakes were drenched to her liking, she accepted the tea Grissom held out to her. "Thank you…I'm starved."

The pair ate in companionable silence, touching one another now and then to reconnect. Sara ate half her pancakes, then lifted both feet into the chair, holding the steaming cup against her chest. She loved watching Grissom eat: a unique combination of manners and precision, he was orderly even in his hunger.

"Are you going to finish those?" he asked once his own plate was clean.

Sara shook her head. Grissom carefully fitted her plate on top of his own and dove in. He pushed a container of fruit in her direction. "They had fresh melon and pineapple, and the strawberries looked pretty good…"

Shaking her head, Sara inhaled the fragrant steam from her tea. "No thanks…"

Grissom gazed over the tops of his glasses at her as he took the last bite of her pancakes. "Is that 'no thanks, I'm full' or 'no thanks, I'm too upset to eat'?"

She took a sip of tea, considering her answer. "Maybe a little of both…but mostly, no thanks, I'm full."

Gil wiped his mouth and drank the last of his tea. "I'm worried about your safety, Sara…I think…"

Sara uncurled from her chair and went back toward the bed. "I thought we settled this," she said as she got back under the covers. "…it's freezing in here, even with that window closed, Griss."

Grissom followed her and lay on top of the down blanket next to her. Propping himself on his elbow, he pulled her into a kiss which she happily returned. When they parted, he ran his hand up her arm and caressed the side of her face and neck.

Sara tried for another kiss, but Gil held her back. _"Someone_ distracted me this morning and _someone_ is trying to change the subject now…so no, this is not settled."

Her only response was to close her eyes and roll quietly onto her back. She did not want to have this conversation. She knew how it was going to end.

She'd known he was right during the Strip Strangler case, but had allowed Agent Culpepper to use her as a decoy anyway. Those murders had her walking the fine line between pushing for a solve and being over-involved with a case. In the end, she realized Grissom wasn't just concerned about a member of his team, but was terrified for _her_.

His worry didn't stop her that time, but things were different now. She wouldn't…she couldn't put him through that again.

But she didn't want to run home to Las Vegas, either. Not if Grissom was staying. She was just as worried about his safety and for the same reasons: he always seemed to be at ground zero when things fell apart. It might be magical thinking, but she hoped if she stayed close, nothing bad could happen to him.

Sara opened her eyes and sighed, resigned. "I don't suppose 'I'll think about it tomorrow' will get me anywhere?"

Gil shook his head, "No, Scarlet…it won't."

She touched his cheek. "All right…let's figure out what we're going to do." She traced a finger around his ear. "I'm sure the rest of the Task Force will go along with extra security precautions."

Grissom smiled, relieved. "I'm sure they will." He leaned in for a quick kiss that led to other things, delaying their discussion one last time.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 4:00 pm – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Edna Spivey hung up the phone and looked at the notes on the pad in front of her. Frowning, she knocked quickly on Director Crawford's door before entering his office.

"Mr. Crawford…this is very odd…" she started, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

When he turned and placed the now orderly 50 page report on his desk, she had to smile at the mangled upper left hand corner, stiff with staples he'd tried unsuccessfully to use to hold the thing together.

Crawford followed her eyes and smiled sheepishly.

"I do have a heavy duty stapler in the cabinet next to my desk, Sir…I could fix that for you."

Jack chuckled and shook his head. "I think I've beaten it into submission, Edna…what's odd?"

"I've been trying to reach Mrs. Culpepper all afternoon and she's not at the hotel…" she puzzled over her notes.

Crawford took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "She's probably gone shopping or out to eat…"

Edna approached the Director's desk and put her pad in front of him. "No, I don't think so, Sir."

She cleared her throat and Crawford looked at her expectantly. "You see, I've talked to several people this afternoon. Commander Prince said she left the jail at 11:15." Edna leaned over the desk and pointed to the timeline she'd worked out.

"That would have put her back at the hotel around noon. When I didn't get an answer at her room, I called the desk and talked with Rajeev Na…Nada…" She stopped, frustrated with the unfamiliar name. "Na-da-ka-duty, the hotel manager. He took my message and then told me a cab driver had turned in her purse early this afternoon…she'd left it in the cab…"

The Director put his glasses back on and studied Edna's notes. "Her money and ID were in the bag?"

"According to…Mr." She referred to her notes. "Nadakaduty, yes. And traveler's checks."

"He's certain she's not in her room?" Crawford ran a finger down the list.

"Yes, Sir. Apparently Mrs. Culpepper had an…incident…a visitor asked him to check on her and he found her passed out…he said, intoxicated." Edna stood up straight, "And before you ask, he wouldn't tell me who the visitor was, but it was yesterday afternoon and it was a woman."

Jack thought a moment, "I suppose she could be visiting someone in town…"

Edna shook her head. "What woman wouldn't be frantic if she realized she'd misplaced her purse…with all her cash, traveler's checks and ID?"

"Good point…this _is_ peculiar…thanks, Edna…I'll follow up." Crawford checked his watch. "Why don't you get out of here? I appreciate your coming in on a Sunday…but it's getting late. Go on home."

"OK, Mr. Crawford…you're sure you don't need me to stay?"

He smiled up at her. "I think I can manage…thanks, Edna. I'll see you tomorrow."

The woman nodded reluctantly and turned to leave. "Good night, Sir."

After she'd gone, Jack thought about Dorothy Culpepper. She'd come south specifically to save her son…and though she hadn't said, he did not have the impression she traveled much. A relative in town? He was in the middle of dismissing that possibility when he realized she did have a relative in town. A nephew: Justice Lark.

Jack Crawford had always thought the concept of one's blood running cold was an old wives tale. Shivering, he had to admit that it wasn't.

_He couldn't have seen her, could he? No one knows she's in town but me and the Task Force and of course, Agent Culpepper and a few people at the Bureau and the jail. It would be an incredible coincidence if he'd run into her somewhere._

Yawning and stretching, Jack's thoughts wandered briefly to the drive home and what he'd planned to watch on the tube that night. Which made him think about the 'documentary' that had been on last night…_We Have Not Forgotten_…

"Jesus Fucking Christ" He stood abruptly, hands in his hair…that fucking CNN thing…Dorothy had been interviewed in that.

The poorly stapled report on the edge of his desk flipped off and hit the floor, scattering pages everywhere. Crawford scrambled for the phone. "Blevins? He's not here? Who _is_ here?" he shouted, voice climbing as he waited for the Assistant Chief of Security. "Parrish? This is Crawford. Get up to my office…we may have a problem."

Exhaling loudly, Crawford stabbed at the disconnect button on his phone. Pulling Edna's notes over, he dialed the number for the Georgetown Inn. "Hello…may I speak to the hotel manager, please? Rajee…yes, that's him. Thank you."

Agitated, the Director paced around his desk, unable to roam far because of the telephone cord. "Hello, Mr. Nadakaduty? My name is Jack Crawford. I'm with the FBI and I am concerned about the whereabouts of one of your guests…Dorothy Culpepper…yes, you spoke with my assistant earlier…"

He paused, listening to the man on the other end of the line. "So she hasn't returned yet? OK, let me ask you this…do you have cameras on the entrance to your hotel? You do? Inside or outside?"

The pause was longer this time as the alarmed hotel manager tried to assess the potential harm releasing the surveillance tapes might do to the hotel. "Look, Mr. Nadakaduty…I can get a warrant but I would rather have your cooperation. We think Mrs. Culpepper might be in danger…you would be doing a personal favor to me and the FBI by letting us look at your tapes."

Stan Parrish entered the Director's office, on full alert, hand on his weapon. Crawford waved him to sit and continued talking, "You will? Good…very good. Thank you, Mr. Nadakaduty. I will have someone down there to pick up your video within the hour. Yes…yes…thanks again."

Jack Crawford hit the disconnect button and dialed another number from memory. "Ruben, this is Jack…well, you're right, it's not good news…I've got a tape coming in and I need you here to analyze it…" Parrish watched the Director relax as AV Chief Ruben Williams agreed to come in. "45 minutes? Great…what? Oh, bring me a plate and tell Virginia I'm sorry to have ruined Sunday dinner. Thanks."

When the Director rang off, he sat and turned to his Assistant Chief of Security. "I need you to get over to the Georgetown Inn." He scribbled the address on a pink message pad and slid it across the desk. "The hotel manager, Rajeev Nadakaduty, will have surveillance video waiting for you. Take it directly to Ruben Williams in the AV Lab."

xxx

Crawford paced around the AV Lab as Ruben Williams searched the Georgetown Inn footage. "Look around noon…the manager said the cabbie brought her back to the hotel around noon…"

Williams concentrated on the time stamps, trying vainly to screen out the rattled Director. After a few minutes, he motioned Crawford over. "Here, look at this."

On screen, an unsteady Dorothy Culpepper got out of a cab and stood stupidly under the portico of the Georgetown Inn. Before she could gather herself, a now familiar man approached her from behind. She turned, the man took her by the arm and escorted her into the back of a waiting van. Moments later, the vehicle pulled out into traffic and was gone.

Crawford exploded. "SHIT!" He kicked a chair, sending it careening across the room, where it bounced off a table and tumbled sideways against the wall. "Shit, shit, shit! He's got her. Justice has her."

* * *

**_Author's Notes:_**

_Thanks to everyone who was so patient and supportive while I took a short break from posting. I appreciate your sticking with me and Dead Ringer._

_**Who is Bill W.?** William Griffith Wilson (26 November 1895–24 January 1971) (commonly known as Bill Wilson or Bill W.), was a co-founder of the society Alcoholics Anonymous. The other co-founder was Dr. Bob Smith. Bill's wife, Lois Wilson became the founder of Al-Anon, a group dedicated to helping the friends and relatives of alcoholics. Dr. Bob's wife, Anne Ripley Smith, worked with Wilson and Smith during the founding days of 1935, developed a journal which she shared with Wilson, AA members and their families, and formed the first women's group in 1936. (This information is quoted directly from the Bill W. search result page on wikipedia dot com)._

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 24 to follow shortly_**


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:**__ My apologies for this chapter appearing a day late. Events in my life conspired to delay its completion. _

Next Thursday is the _**CSI Season 7 finale**__. Given the excitement/hysteria sure to follow, I will not be posting on Friday, May 18 so I can scream and enjoy the whole thing along with everyone else. __**Chapter 25 will be posted on Friday, May 25**_

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

_WARNING: This chapter contains the description of a crime – some will find this  
material disturbing, as it is far outside accepted social norms._

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 6:00 pm – Quantico****

* * *

**

"Yes, Sir…I'll get right on it. Midnight in conference room 1516…I'll let you know as soon as I find everyone…oh, he is…OK…do you need me to take notes tonight, Mr. Crawford? You do…sure, no problem…I understand. Goodbye, Sir."

Jill Arthur sighed deeply and checked her watch. Nope, she was not going to make it home in time to watch _60 Minutes_. "Shoot."

Morley Safer was doing a piece about Helen Mirren tonight and she'd so wanted to watch that, especially after she'd seen her in _The Queen_. Oh well, all part of the job…

Jill looked down at the list of names in her hand and considered the best way to find these people. It would be easy if she could just call them on their cell phones, but since 9/11, security had gotten so tight, personal phones, PDAs and even iPods were no longer allowed in secure government installations. Oh, there were a few people who had government issued devices, mostly Blackberries, but guests like the members of the Task Force didn't have them. It was a chore to locate someone if they didn't happen to be at their duty station. Usually you just sent an email and hoped for the best.

Miss Arthur pulled on her coat and set off for the dorm, thinking that if she was lucky, she could catch most of the out-of-towners in their temporary quarters. On a hunch, she decided to swing by the conference room on her way out of the building.

A woman's voice drifted toward her as she approached. "I can't believe how well-off this guy is…why isn't he kicking back somewhere and enjoying the good life?"

A man answered. "I don't know, Miranda…I think maybe, for him, this is the good life…"

The woman shot back, "Well, that's just sick…and a waste of perfectly good money."

Jill entered as the man responded, "You won't be getting an argument from me."

Will Graham and Miranda Robinson looked up from where they were hunched around a laptop, startled. They separated quickly and Graham's ears went red.

"Oh!…sorry to interrupt…" Miss Arthur was a bit surprised at their reaction.

Miranda smoothed her hair. "We've been at this for awhile…we could use a break. What's up?"

"Mr. Crawford has called a meeting for midnight tonight, right here in this conference room. I'm trying to find everyone on the Task Force to let them know." Jill took a quick look around the room – no one else was there. "Have you seen any of the others?"

"Will has been here since one o'clock or so…I came in maybe an hour later?…but we haven't seen anyone all afternoon." Miranda turned to Will, who was _very_ busy studying his shoes. He glanced up and shook his head when she poked his shoulder.

Jill tilted her head, slightly puzzled. "O…K…any idea where the others might be?"

Shoes catalogued, Graham finally joined the conversation. "Willy is probably at home…"

"Oh, I know where he is…Mr. Crawford has him on a detail downtown…" Miss Arthur said absently as she made notes on her list. "So, I just need to find Dr. Robichaud, Miss Sidle and Dr. Grissom."

Mental alarm bells went off for both Miranda and Graham. Was there another body? What was Willy doing downtown? Miranda tried to be nonchalant, "Any idea what the meeting is about?"

Miss Arthur shook her head. "The Director just asked that I find everyone on the Task Force and tell them about the meeting. Sorry." Buttoning up her coat, she pulled a scarf and gloves out of her pocket. "If you happen to see or hear from anyone, please let them know about the meeting and leave a message at my desk, OK?" With that, she turned and went on down the hall.

Once Crawford's assistant was gone, Miranda and Will looked at one another worriedly, wondering in unison, "What's going on?"

Graham laughed that they had spoken at once. Miranda socked his arm and tried to look severe. They both reached for the laptop and scooted their chairs together until they were shoulder to shoulder once more.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 6:30 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Justice Lark stared down at the unconscious woman, quivering with excitement. It had been awhile since he'd done so much cosmetic work and this was the first time he'd had a living subject. He was pleased to learn he hadn't lost his touch. Harry had taught him well.

Dorothy had passed out in the back of his van, which made getting her back to the command center a lot less trouble than anticipated. Light whiffs of halothane had kept her under all afternoon as he'd considered what to do with her.

He'd decided to turn back the clock.

Her gray hair, now a rich sable, was loose and arranged prettily around her shoulders. Almost invisible patches of face-lift tape pulled what had fallen back into place from collar bones to crown. Elastic bands hidden in her hair pulled pads affixed to her skin taut near her eyes and again at the base of her jaw.

Stepping back from the table, he studied her.

She was beautiful.

Carefully, he reached out and ran his thumb over her lips. Just as soft as he thought they'd be. He whimpered with pain…his erection was so large and he'd gone so long without release, he wondered if maybe he might be doing permanent damage. A hand crept down to caress the throbbing flesh of his cock…oh, how he longed to let go.

The thought was driven from his mind when Dorothy blinked a few times. For a moment, their eyes met and all the love he'd been missing jumped from her to him like wildfire. A shuddering sigh shook his body as he drank in every last drop between them.

Then she started to scream.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 6:45 pm – Fort Detrick – Frederick, Maryland****

* * *

**

Colonel Piper Langston printed out his report, checking it one last time before he slipped it into a courier envelope. A request from the FBI was unusual: their labs were pretty sophisticated. And he'd never heard of a forensic application for antibody titering, but he had to admit it was a damn clever way to tell identical twins apart.

His team worked with the most lethal disease agents: ebola, Marburg, Lhasa, flesh eating bacteria, anthrax…many others. The work was important but grim. This chance to use their skills in a unique way _and_ solve a series of murders was a challenge they couldn't resist.

Antibody titering was a routine assay for Langston's group, used to gauge exposure to pathogens and usually run with at least a small sense of dread: presence of antibodies meant there had been a clean room breach, which might portend a disaster of _Andromeda Strain_ proportions.

He smiled with pride. Loud cheers and whistles had gone up in the lab next door to his office. Head tech, Chan Li, rushed in moments later, grinning and breathless: they'd found a distinct difference in the samples.

Sealing the envelope, Colonel Langston reached for the phone. "Sergeant Watkins, I need a courier…yes, it's that FBI thing…30 minutes? Good." He was about to hang up but changed his mind. "Oh, and Sergeant, could you get Dr. Mason Robichaud on the phone for me? He's out at the FBI Academy in Quantico…I'm not sure where…no, I don't have a…oh, wait. Call Director Crawford's assistant out there…Jill somebody…Arthur, that's it. She should be able to track him down. Thanks."

Piper Langston thought about his mentor and how Mason had guided him when he was an eager eyed high school senior and Robichaud was the only doctor in St. Mary's Parish.

_You got to get out of the bayou and get an education, Pip. Your learning is just beginning and if you're smart, you'll never stop." _

Forever connected by cypress trees, Spanish moss and the beautiful bayou they called home, they'd both come a very long way from humble beginnings. Langston smiled again and mused, _"Wait 'til you see what we found out for you, Robby. It's about time I paid you back."_

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 7:00 pm – FBI Headquarters – Washington, DC****

* * *

**

A couple of turns around the block outside FBI Headquarters had helped the Director calm himself.

Kicking chairs around the lab was no way to find Mrs. Culpepper.

He'd sent Agent Foster to interview their only witnesses: the manager of the Georgetown Inn and the cab driver who had dropped Mrs. Culpepper in front of the hotel. He'd talked personally with DC Police Chief Charles Davenport and Capital Police Chief Lawrence Nelson, as well as the state police watch commanders in Virginia and Maryland: all their people were on the lookout for Dorothy Culpepper. AV Chief Ruben Williams was still analyzing the hotel surveillance video.

All that was left was the hard part: waiting.

Back in his office, he tried to shuffle a few papers around until the aroma coming from the tinfoil covered plate resting on the corner of his desk snagged his attention. He could probably take a break to eat.

Jack Crawford wiped his mouth and made a mental note to thank Virginia Williams for the Sunday dinner she'd sent in earlier along with her husband, Ruben: roast chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, steamed green beans and a piece of apple pie for dessert. As much as he'd hated to ruin anyone's supper, he was glad of some home cooking.

Thinking coffee might be just the thing to go with that pie, Jack wandered into the small break room a couple of doors down from his office. No coffee. After rooting around in the cupboard under the coffee machine, he realized re-stocking probably occurred on Mondays. Undeterred, he went down a floor and grabbed a cup out of the vending machine.

He told himself that the slightly burnt taste went well with the pie. Then he walked back down to the break room, returning with a container of Coffee-Mate. Cup doctored, he ate his pie in peace, remembering Bella, the lazy Sunday afternoons they'd spent puttering around the house and how much he missed her even now.

After awhile, he started flipping through the odds and ends on his desk. Amazing how much paper required his signature these days. Edna took care of most of it, but some things needed his actual signature or initials.

Third down in a stack of requisitions was a request for extra security.

For the Task Force.

From Gil Grissom.

Odd.

Jack turned the paper over. The comments section was blank. No help there.

Crawford scratched his cheek trying to understand. It didn't make any sense…Task Force members were either at the Academy or here at HQ: both secure environments. When they had to be elsewhere, they were always in the company of Agents or other law enforcement. What kind of extra security was needed?

William Foster knocked softly on the open office door before letting himself in. "I'm back."

The Director folded the requisition and put it in his breast pocket. "They know anything?"

William plopped into the chair next to Crawford's desk. "Unfortunately, no. The hotel manager was a little freaked out…" The Agent stretched out his legs. "He asked that the police turn their lights off and park in the hotel lot. He was cooperative but he didn't know anything."

"How about the cab driver?"

Foster pulled out his notebook. "Kavi Ganesh. He remembered Mrs. Culpepper but didn't see anyone grab her, if that's what you mean." He flipped a page. "His next fare found the handbag that had been left behind. Once Ganesh dropped the fare, he took the purse to the hotel and put it in Mr. Nadakaduty's hands."

Crawford exhaled noisily. "So the surveillance video is all we have."

"Looks like it…has Ruben found anything?"

"The first two letters in the license plate…" Jack shrugged. "Do you have any idea how many white generic vans are registered in DC?"

Foster shook his head. "A lot."

The Director picked up a note on his desk. "105,637…in DC alone. Thank God it's a DC plate."

Agent Foster whistled. "Presuming the plate is legit."

Jack dropped the note. "Presuming."

The younger man hesitated. "I kind of hate to ask this, but has there been a ransom demand?"

Crawford did not answer; he merely stared at his Agent.

"Forget I asked."

Jack pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk, sat back in his chair and propped up his feet. "I'm thinking of going to the media…what do you think?"

"Well, if they hadn't already pissed all over our investigation, I'd say no…" William thought for a moment. "But since they have, it may be the only way of finding Mrs. Culpepper alive…maybe somebody saw something."

Crawford sighed, unconvinced. "That's what I was thinking…but..."

Foster straightened up and sat forward in his chair. "Jack…we have no real idea what's driving this guy. Dorothy Culpepper does not fit his victim profile…it's probably not a sex thing like the others have been…"

"What if we're wrong and this just stirs him up?" Jack looked sick. "He might kill her."

"She was as good as dead when he kidnapped her, Jack. If she hadn't left her purse in the cab, we might never have known what happened to her. It's just luck the critical moment was caught by security cameras."

"You're right, William." The Director lifted his legs off the drawer and closed it. "I'll schedule a news conference for the morning."

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 7:30 pm – Quantico****

* * *

**

"Mr. Crawford, I found everyone but Dr. Robichaud…he's not in his room or in any of the labs…oh…oh, I see…well, I'll stop looking for _him_, then." Jill Arthur rolled her eyes and crossed Mason Robichaud off her list with heavy strokes. "Yes, they're all going to be there…yes, me, too."

Her eyes strayed to the courier envelope on her desk. "Oh, Mr. Crawford…would you tell Dr. Robichaud he has a package waiting? From Ft. Detrick…I believe he's expecting it. He has a phone message, too. From a Colonel Langston. I have number…yes, tell me when you're ready…" Jill paused while her boss found a pen. "Ready? 301-555-2018…extension 8347…he said he'd be in the office until 10 or so…that's it…all right, Sir."

Miss Arthur hung up the phone and stood abruptly, irritated. "That _MAN_…" She sorted some things on her desk, grumbling. "You could have _told_ me Dr. Robichaud was down at _Headquarters_ doing an _autopsy_. He's going to drive me crazy…I know it, one of these days I'm going to go right 'round the bend."

Eventually the long suffering woman wound down and relaxed into her chair. That interview with Helen Mirren was probably over by now. She glanced at the clock on her desk and sighed. Yep. Maybe someone around the Academy taped it…she'd post an ad on the local network bulletin board tomorrow.

The list with the names of the Task Force members caught her eye. She marked off the last two names for the sake of completion: Sara Sidle and Dr. Gil Grissom.

She'd found them in Dr. Grissom's dorm room. He was gracious about the interruption, but she'd obviously interrupted their quiet afternoon alone. Both of them looked tired. Despite that, they'd gotten busy looking for warmer clothes and she'd left them to sort it out.

Voices approached from the direction of the entryway. The Las Vegas CSIs walked toward her arm in arm, heads close as they chatted. Jill stood and smiled. "Good evening…I'm sorry you have to cut short your day of rest."

Dr. Grissom removed his hat and gloves and returned her smile. "Not a problem, Miss Arthur. We'll be in the conference room."

"Mr. Graham and Ms. Robinson are already in there…" she started.

Miss Sidle walked past with a friendly wave, unwinding the long striped scarf she'd wrapped around her head and neck. Dr. Grissom nodded absently and followed, apparently fascinated with the unveiling. It was kind of cute: no one had looked at her in quite that way in…well, a long time.

Muffled greetings echoed down the hall before someone closed the conference room doors.

Shuffling things around her desk did not turn up work undone: unless the Director called, she was free until the midnight meeting. Was there time to go home? Yes, but driving all the way to Silver Spring and back just seemed like a waste of time. Besides, gas was pretty expensive these days.

Thinking she really ought to move to Virginia one of these days, Jill clicked the internet button on the taskbar of her computer and did a search on real estate. Before long, it was all a muddle of words. Well, she was happy where she was and didn't want to move anyway.

She typed in a favorite URL. The official Oscars site popped up. Movies were her passion. Lots of good films this year, including _The Queen_. She never missed the Oscars…the women were so pretty in their gowns and sometimes the winners said the most ridiculous things. Before long she was immersed in Oscar buzz and her down time before the meeting passed quickly.

**Sunday, January 7, 2007 – 10:30 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC****

* * *

**

Dorothy Culpepper woke to find herself in a strange bed. Her head was pounding and for a moment she thought she was at home, hung over from an intimate evening with Tanqueray…she'd done that often enough. Minutes passed.

When her head cleared a little, it left her with the vague feeling she'd had a bad dream and just couldn't remember it.

The effort to think through the pain was too much. Closing her eyes, she leaned back into the pillow and waited.

The throbbing faded gradually. Saying a quick prayer of thanks, she opened her eyes once more. This was not in her bedroom.

"_Cedar,"_ she thought muzzily. _"I smell cedar."_

Dorothy was half sitting up in the bed, her back supported by pillows. Soft under her fingers was a worn quilt covering her to the waist. Something about it was familiar, but she couldn't place it.

She had on a long sleeved nightgown of white eyelet which smelled of cedar. _"That's where the smell is coming from…it's been in someone's cedar chest."_

Her stomach turned several times with nausea. The next few minutes were spent concentrating on her breathing. She wasn't at all sure she could make it to the bathroom if she had to…

As if from far away, fear trumpeted faintly in her brain. _"Where am I?"_

Unease crept up her spine and like a train barreling toward her, became a blast that made her shake her head. _"WHERE AM I?"_

The sudden movement brought an explosion of pain.

Dorothy managed to open her eyes once more, struggling to understand her surroundings. The room was spare – about 12' x 12', white walls, polished wide plank floor. Next to the bed stood simple end tables, bare except for a single milk-glass hurricane lamp on each one.

A wooden straight chair sat precisely in the center of a small braided rug in shades of red and black.

At the foot of the short-posted bedstead was a plain oak triple dresser. On the wall above, what she thought was a painting turned out to be a framed mirror, clearly reflecting the bed and its occupant.

Occupant?

Staring back at her from the glass was a much younger woman, long hair loose on her shoulders…

When Dorothy looked down, dark hair lay curled gently against her chest. Weirdly tethered to this twin in the mirror she touched the hair, shocked to find it was her own.

"_My hair isn't this color…my hair is…WHERE AM I?"_

Trembling fingers explored her face. The familiar terrain was taut and firm. That was when she realized her skin felt stretched, as if she'd just washed her face. She found the tape and the elastic pulling everything back…the woman in the mirror appeared puzzled until she realized that was why she looked so young…

Deep in the animal part of her brain, the command went out…_run run run runrunrunrunRUN!_

Dorothy threw back the quilt at the same time she tried to shoot her feet over the side of the bed…but they wouldn't move. Below the ruffled hem of the nightgown, padded leather shackles snared her ankles; chains in a pale pink silk sleeves snaked from each restraint over the matching pink sheet to a bedpost.

"_Someone chained me up? Why would someone do tha…"_

A man entered just as Dorothy was staring dumbly at her feet.

For one precious moment, she thought her Rick had come back to her. Then doubt crept in…his expression was wrong…and why was he wearing his bathrobe? Frowning, she lowered her eyes. Then he saw it: his right leg was prosthetic.

"_Oh, Blessed Mother…it's the twin…"_

Justice beamed as he walked toward her. "You're awake…I've been waiting for you to wake up…"

His voice was so like Rick's…

"Hello, Dorothy…we met once before but weren't properly introduced…I am Justice Lark." He smiled brightly taking her hands in his.

Frightened but confused by his mild manner, she tried to meet his eyes. "He…hello…Ju…Justice…"

"Pleased to meet you, Dorothy." He swept the rumpled quilt off the bed and lay down beside her, resting his head on his elbow as he gazed at her. "Are you comfortable?" He caressed her cheek and let his hand rest across her middle.

Her eyes widened. She couldn't understand what was going on, so she nodded slightly.

"Well, that's good. Everyone should be comfortable…I think I'll get a little more comfortable." He untied the sash of his watered silk midnight blue kimono, pulled it apart and smiled at her happily. "You don't mind, do you?"

Dorothy could feel his hot skin through the thin cotton of her gown and the unmistakable bulge of his erection pressed against her thigh.

Concern filled his eyes as she went pale, stuttering out, "Are you…you're nnnnot going to ra…rape me…no…please, don't…"

His fingers started to fiddle with the buttons on her nightgown near the waist. "NO!" He cried, hurt. "I would _never_ do that, Dorothy." Little by little the delicate pearl buttons gave way beneath his fingers.

"Look at me…please…" Strong fingers lifted her chin so she had to meet his eyes. "I would never do that, Dorothy…" He smiled slightly and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "You must trust me."

Too frightened to do anything else, she nodded again.

"OK, then…" His fingers returned to their task and more buttons were undone. "You see, Dorothy, I just want to be near you…" As the last button gave way he inhaled sharply and exhaled with a soft sigh. Carefully, Justice folded back the cotton fabric, exposing her breasts.

The terrified woman started to struggle at last, but he hooked his leg over hers and fumbled with something in his pocket. One handed, he extracted a plastic bag from his robe, managed to pull out the cloth inside it and held it under her nose.

"Now, now…you must relax, dear." Justice turned his head so that he would not succumb to the halothane fumes. Slightly disappointed that their first time had to rely on drugs, it was preferable to the screaming she'd indulged in earlier.

When she stopped fighting, he tossed the cloth to the foot of the bed and turned his head toward her once again. Tentatively, he touched her right breast and cupped it gently. "I promise I won't hurt you, Dorothy…never…hurt…you."

Excitement shot up his spine with such force he broke a sweat. Wrapping his arm around her, he shifted their bodies so that he was as close to her as possible. Grasping her hand, he kissed the limp fingers and wound her fingers into his hair. "Never…hurt…you…"

Time spun out and the past collided with the present. His little boy self nuzzled at his mother's breast while his adult lips took a nipple deep in his mouth and started to suck.

"_Mama's boy…Mama's big boy." A honeyed voice had whispered softly in his ear. "Still so hungry."_

Infantile feelings of warmth and love combined with grown-up urges.

He rocked against her slowly, lost in a living memory. Mama's quilt…Mama' pretty white nightgown…

"_I'm a BIG boy…a BIG boy…a BIG boy…your BIG boy…"_

His thoughts beat out the rhythm and his body obeyed down to the last cell. At the end, legs tangled in the white eyelet gown, semen spreading in a translucent circle on the fabric between them, he dropped peacefully to sleep like a babe in his mother's arms.

xxx

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:**__ My apologies for this chapter appearing a day late. Events in my life conspired to delay its completion. _

Next Thursday is the _**CSI Season 7 finale**__. Given the excitement/hysteria sure to follow, I will not be posting on Friday, May 18 so I can scream and enjoy the whole thing along with everyone else. __**Chapter 25 will be posted on Friday, May 25**_

_**To Be Continued…Chapter 25 to follow on May 25.**_


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 12:00 am – Somewhere in Washington, DC  
**

* * *

Dorothy Culpepper was still unconscious when Justice woke from his doze. Sticky and cold, he got up and pulled his robe closed around him. 

Though she did not wake, Dorothy folded in on herself trying to stay warm. The nightgown she wore was open to the waist, still showing her breasts. The hem was bunched around her legs and stuck to her thigh where he had climaxed against her.

The light in the room was low, but Justice took in the scene with new eyes. The woman before him was crumpled and worn, papery skin alternately stretched too thin or drooping in wattles. Her dark hair seemed dull, no longer lush and inviting, but stiff and false. Sagging mouth open in sleep, her teeth peeped through chapped lips unevenly as she breathed.

His wonderful dream burst into blades of disgust, clawing at him from every direction. _"Not Mama…NOT Mama…"_

He rounded the bed and picked up the cloth soaked with halothane and replaced it in the plastic bag tucked in the pocket of his robe. His treasured quilt had fallen in a heap at the foot of the bed: Justice picked it up, caressing the soft fabric as he did so. _"Oh, Mama…my God…" _

He'd slit his mother's gown up the back to make it easier to dress an unconscious Dorothy. From this angle he could see her backside and suddenly, he wanted to vomit.

With one hand firmly clasped over his mouth, he peeled the garment off the sleeping woman. Holding it away from himself, he let it fall to the floor as he hastily covered her nakedness with the quilt.

Bending quickly Justice grasped the eyelet gown with two fingers and hesitated over the nearby waste basket before letting it drop. It was nothing but garbage snuggled into the soft quilt as Justice ran from the room, retching between his fingers before he made it to the toilet.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 12:15 am – Quantico  
**

* * *

The Task Force convened in conference room 1516 at 12:15. Grissom, Sara, Miranda and Will had already been there for hours. Agent Foster and Dr. Robichaud had driven out from headquarters together. As usual, the Director was the last one to arrive. 

Jack Crawford entered the room followed closely by Jill Arthur. The Task Force, who had been sharing information and pages from new reports, settled quickly at the look of sullen fury on the Director's face. "I apologize for interrupting everyone's day of rest," he began in his slow baritone. "And for calling such a late meeting. Unfortunately, there has been a rather disturbing development today that you all needed to be made aware of."

"Another body?" Grissom's rasped, his usually smooth voice roughened with dread. He was sitting rigidly in his chair, his hand blindly reaching for Sara's.

Crawford shook his head. "Actually, no." He took a deep breath, "Dorothy Culpepper was abducted from her hotel earlier today by Justice Lark."

Mason murmured, "Holy Mother of God," and the room lapsed into stunned silence.

Crawford cleared his throat. "Obviously, there will be no ransom demand – that's not how this guy works. State and local authorities in Maryland, Virginia and the District have been alerted, but Lark has gone to ground somewhere…"

Miranda and Graham shared a knowing glance. She stood while he organized their notes. "We may be able to shed some light on that…Lark owns quite a bit of property…a lot of it local…"

Will handed her a sheaf of papers and passed a stack around the table. "The paper trail on Justice Lark went cold in 1979…no income taxes, no tangible records of any kind. It was like he evaporated at age 19." He glanced proudly at his partner. "Miranda discovered Lark has been using his father's social security number…"

The Atlanta Detective blushed slightly as an excited murmur went around the table. "Once we knew which social to track, we had more data than we knew what to do with…"

Crawford paged quickly through his handout. "Jesus…look at all the real estate in the District and Virginia…"

Graham pulled though some papers in front of him. "The man's a mogul…he's worth millions…"

Miranda nodded toward the bank records in Will's hand. "And he's got aliases…we found at least a dozen DBAs…"

Mason scratched his head and looked up from his copy of the report. "What's a DBA?"

Grissom and Will spoke simultaneously. "Doing Business As…"

The Las Vegas CSI reddened and indicated Graham should continue. "It's a common business practice. Say you wanted to open a trendy hair salon, but your name isn't trendy…"

Miranda chimed in, "…like Ignatz Shurtz…"

"Very good…OK, so Mr. Shurtz wants to open a salon, not a laundry service…" Graham smiled. "He might get a business license for Ignatz Shurtz _doing business as_ Nicholas Alexander…a more romantic sounding name."

Robichaud nodded, "Oh, I see…"

Crawford felt his pockets. "William, did I give you that list of names from the house-to-house at the Mission Hill scene?"

"Yeah, you did…" Agent Foster pulled an 8.5 x 11 sheet folded lengthwise out of his breast pocket.

The Director plucked it from his hand and did a side by side comparison with the list of aliases in Will and Miranda's report. "Son of a bitch…Thorne Scribner…owns the house at 1255 Burning Mill Road…"

Graham pushed papers aside until he found the map of the Mission Hill neighborhood. "That's the house right behind the Mission Hill house."

Grissom squeezed Sara's hand. "What happened on the house-to-house? Was anyone at that address?"

Foster bent to get a closer look at the paper under the Director's finger. "No one answered the door…"

Crawford stood abruptly, hand flying to his face. "SHIT! He was probably _there_…watching…FUCK!"

Grissom, Graham and Crawford all reached for the phone at the same time. The younger men let Jack make the call. He hit a few buttons and waited. "Voice mail…God _dammit_…" Running his free hand through his hair, he exhaled noisily. "I _told_ her I'd need her tonight…where's my fucking assistant?"

Jill Arthur looked up from her spot near the door where she'd been taking notes. "Mr. Crawford? Um…sir?"

Furious, Crawford whirled on her. The look on his face was wild, making her go pale and leap to her feet, steno pad and pen scattering across the floor. "I'm _sorry_…Mr. Crawf…"

Jack was so startled to see the woman, he took a step backwards and pressed his hand to his chest. "Christ!" When he caught his breath, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Geez, Jill…I am so sorry…" Quickly, he bent to retrieve the pad and pen. "Please…Miss Arthur…"

"That's OK, really, Mr. Crawford…" She took the pen and notebook. "What do you need me to do?"

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 12:30 am – Stafford, Virginia  
**

* * *

Alan Burrows was famous for his contact list: he'd built a career on being able to uncover just about anything on just about anybody. Competitors thought he had excellent research skills and a photographic memory. While this was true, it was also true his 'little black book' had expanded over the years so that it now took up several volumes and an entire Rolodex. He'd been transferring it all to Outlook for weeks: even he was shocked at the number of names he'd accumulated. 

The latest entry was sleeping next to him: Susie Gold. Day shift dispatcher for Virginia State Police Division VII – the area covering Arlington, Fairfax, Loudoun, and Prince William counties – she was a law enforcement wannabe. Too short to pass the physical, she'd had to settle for an administrative position but she was determined to be the best damned dispatcher in history.

No one had a crisper uniform, shinier shoes, or more dedication to the job. All things law enforcement fascinated her: she subscribed to half a dozen journals, was vice president in her union, and had police radios at home and in her car. If she couldn't be an officer, she could dream and dream she did.

She was something of a joke around the office (her peers called her Little Susie Suckup behind her back), but the officers loved her. When Susie was on duty, they knew she would have a clear and concise description of what was going on at any scene she sent them to, she kept an eye on traffic and directed them around major tie ups if possible, and she monitored the radio so she knew when backup was needed almost before they did.

Alan sat up in bed and looked down at his companion. She might be too small to be a statie, but she was perfect as an unidentified source. Nothing she told him ever put an officer in harm's way, but she was not above sticking it to the people who set the minimum height a quarter inch too high for her to qualify. And she gave _really_ good head.

_We Have Not Forgotten_ droned quietly on the TV in the corner of the bedroom…Susie had taped it and made him watch it with her over and over. They'd been fucking for months and it gave her a thrill to see inside information she'd collected turn up on CNN. In truth, Susie would have made an excellent detective – it was Alan's good fortune she'd channeled her disappointment through him to the airwaves.

Burrows got up and went to the bathroom. There'd been rumors at the network that someone important had been kidnapped…Alan figured if anyone knew the real score, it would be Susie. He'd made the drive out to Stafford, hung around for hours and fucked her twice but hadn't been able to learn anything new. Susie had heard the rumors, too, but nothing concrete.

Now he was tired and wanted to go home. At 50, Burrows was feeling a little old to play this game. After a long day of Lisa King shredding his ass because he couldn't produce, he'd almost welcomed the idea of pumping Susie…but she was just as grating (well, except when his dick was in her mouth) – only in a different way.

The constant babble of the police radio took on an urgent note, dragging his attention back to the project at hand. When he got back to bed, Susie was sitting up, completely alert, notepad in hand.

She turned to him with a huge grin. "There's something big going on, Alan…listen…"

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 1:00 am – Quantico  
**

* * *

The police radio Jill Arthur put in the center of the conference room table had captured everyone's attention even though it emitted mostly static. The Task Force sat around it speaking in hushed tones, straining to hear whenever voices were audible. So far, nothing. 

Jack Crawford paced.

The Virginia State Police had dispatched a high tech team to the Burning Mill Road house in hopes of catching anyone inside unaware. They were going in quiet, which was probably more effective but definitely took longer. Jill wondered if the Director's nerves could handle much more waiting.

"_House is in sight…I repeat, 1255 address is in my line of sight."_

"_Got you. Stand by."_

Grissom squeezed Sara's left hand. She whispered. "Do you think he's there?"

The look in his eyes told her what she wanted to know, but he tried to reassure her. "It's possible…"

"But you don't think so, do you?" Sara sighed heavily.

Graham leaned in close from his seat to her right. "We're going to get him, Sara…maybe not this minute, but we're going to get him." His eyes slid from her face to Grissom's: she was not the only one Will was trying to comfort.

Gil's response was a curt nod.

"_Infrared is up…we have telemetry."_

"_Copy that. Circle the property clockwise…stop when I tell you._

"_Roger."_

Agent Foster said quietly. "I've seen that infrared setup…you can tell where people are in a building if it's not too big. For a small house like that…"

A burst of static was followed by excited voices.

"_Heat source on lower level. I repeat, heat source on lower level at the rear of the house."_

"_We're ready to go in…give the word."_

"_Wait…wait…confirming…"_

"_How many is it? One…more than one?"_

Jack Crawford stopped pacing and stood with his head lowered, straining to hear.

"_One only…repeating…one source only."_

"_What's he doing? Jesus…come on!"_

Unable to keep still, Miranda stood and started to pace. Graham got up and stood near Crawford.

"_One source, appears to be prone…not moving…very hot."_

"_GO! GO! GO!"_

Tension in the room went off the scale as everyone held their breath. The speakers in the little police radio were overwhelmed by the barrage of noise …loud banging, raised voices, other unintelligible racket…

Then the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Three rounds in quick succession.

Silence spun out for many seconds. Hope hovered in the room…waiting…waiting…

_"Report…what's going on? Report, God damn it!"_

Minutes passed. Crawford spun around in frustration and stalked out of the room, only to return seconds later.

_"Residence is clear…"_

_"We heard gunfire…did you get him?"_

_"Negative."_

_"Well, what the fuck was it?"_

_"Guard dog, sir. Big one…we had to shoot it, sir."_

The Task Force and the officer on radio shouted in unison, "Son of a BITCH!"

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 1:15 am – Somewhere in Washington, DC  
**

* * *

Justice Lark was trying to distract himself. He did a load of laundry, paid some bills, cleaned out the refrigerator, answered his email...he fought periods of queasiness with ginger ale and when that didn't work, Emetrol. A noisome sense of dread still twisted and rolled inside even when his belly was empty. 

He turned on the media wall briefly, trying to find something about the last Messenger, but there'd been nothing since Friday evening.

Dimly, he heard crying from his bedroom. "Please…is anyone there? Hello?"

Taking Dorothy had been a mistake.

"_Don't need to think about that right now…think about something else…"_

The Mission…yes, he should think about The Mission. Lately he'd been neglecting his duties in that regard…Papa would be so angry.

He sorted through several DVDs until he found footage from the last Messenger. Oh yes, the last one…she had been pleasant…

She'd been a little different…not quite up to snuff Messenger-wise…but then he'd added that extra bit…that little signature on her thigh…

A familiar sensation of heat and fullness spread outward from his belly. Not even bothering to look at the screen, he pulled his robe apart and reached for his lube. The slightly cool slick stuff felt so good on his cock…

Whining, not unlike that of a mosquito, flitted around his ears. "Justice? Are you out there…"

Grasping himself firmly, he inhaled and thought about Sidle…beautiful, sexy Sidle. His erection jumped in his hand picturing her. Mental movie in full swing, he settled into an easy rhythm…this should last…oh yes, he wanted it to last…

A loud noise – ­perhaps a piece of furniture being overturned – punctured his bubble of bliss. From the next room, Dorothy cried pitifully. "Please…I have to go to the bathroom…Is anyone there?"

His erection deflated taking all those lovely hot feelings with it. Face reddening in anger, Justice wiped his hand on his robe, reached across the console for his headphones and stabbed at his iPod until he found the right tune.

The first promising notes of Ravel poured into his ears. He stroked himself tenderly, conjuring up images of Sidle and the shore and crashing waves. She gazed into his eyes and beckoned to him from the surf… "Come to me…come to me…"

Breath quickening, he pounded himself in time with the music, coming on a crescendo of music drenched fantasy.

He lay in his command center sweating, trying to catch his breath.

He'd successfully made himself deaf to the noises next door. Eventually, the noises stopped.

But not for long.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 1:30 am – Quantico  
**

* * *

When the Op at Burning Mill Road was completed, the Task Force sat around the conference room uncertain what to do next. Finally they started talking quietly amongst themselves as Jack Crawford tried to calm himself down. 

Once he'd circled the room a few dozen times and made an equal number of calls, he slowed to an idle and sat at the head of the table.

"All right, people. I've put Agents all over that scene…if there's any evidence of Justice Lark or Dorothy Culpepper, we'll know by morning." Crawford looked around the table tiredly. "I'm open to suggestions for where we go from here. By the way…Graham, Miranda…good work on Lark's financial records."

Will glanced at Miranda, who nodded. "We'd like to do some more work on those records…there are still some alleys we need to explore…"

"Layers of false names and corporations…" Miranda pulled the laptop they'd been using toward her. "We have at least another four hours of work to do before we'll have a real handle on his 'empire.'"

"Good deal…" Jack checked his watch. "Jill can help you set up a database for cross referencing…right, Jill?"

Miss Arthur looked up from her notepad. "Sure…happy to help…" She stifled a yawn.

Will nodded toward the Director's assistant. "Take pity on the poor woman, Jack. She's not used to marathon casework."

Jill put up both hands and spoke through another yawn. "I'm fine…really."

Crawford shook his head and pointed at the door, yawning himself. "Go home, Jill. We'll see you in the morning."

Getting while the getting was good, Jill waved to everyone and left.

Mason yawned and stood. "I'll be back in the morning…you won't be ready to go over the autopsy results until then anyway."

Jack loosened his tie and stood to take off his jacket. "You're probably right, Robby…" The edge of a requisition form peeked out of the breast pocket. Puzzled, he pulled it out and remembered. "Oh, Grissom…I got your request for extra security…what's that about?"

Robby paused in the doorway, coat half on, half off.

Grissom's eyebrows went up questioningly. "For Sara?"

When no further explanation was offered, Crawford prodded, "Because…?"

Sara and Grissom looked at one another, frowning.

Agent Foster filled in the blanks. "Because Sara's name was burned into the last victim…"

The color drained from Jack Crawford's face and his mouth moved…but sound came out.

Graham pulled through the papers in front of him and pushed two folders toward the Director. "It was in the scene photos and the preliminary autopsy report, Jack."

For a long moment, Crawford said nothing. Finally he opened the folder and sorted through the 8 x 10s of the Mission Hill victim with carefully controlled movements. When he looked up again, he was purple with rage. "What is she still doing here?" he growled almost to himself.

The Task Force members were stunned. Each tried to form a response, but Jack stood abruptly, sending his chair skittering across the tile floor. "Christ! Jesus FUCKING Christ!" He tossed the folder onto the table and ran his hands through his hair. "How did I miss this? I know I'm tired but…" He braced his hands on the table and bowed his head in exhausted defeat.

William Foster sputtered, "I asked you to start the house-to-house at the scene…I'd just found out…I thought I'd…"

Jack interrupted voice flat, trying to stay in control. "None of that matters now…what does matter is that we have to get Ms. Sidle out of Lark's reach…"

Sara's eyes widened and she shook her head vehemently. "No…no, I'm not going anywhere…" She searched for Grissom's hand then felt his arm around her shoulder.

The Director whirled on her. "You think you have a say in this, Ms. Sidle? You don't…"

Everyone started talking at once. When Crawford saw Graham open his mouth, he turned on him. "And you…you, of all people…YOU should know she needs to be anywhere but here!"

Will went a deep shade of red. "Don't you start with me, Jack…it was you who put Molly in danger…"

Grissom stood with raised hands, motioning for quiet. "Please…please…we need to discuss this calmly…"

Crawford whistled loudly and the uproar died at once. "With respect, Dr. Grissom...there is nothing to discuss." He nodded toward Sara. "Ms. Sidle, you are out of here as soon as I can arrange transport. Pack your things. You're off this Task Force." He looked accusingly around the room. "I am not going to put one more person in this lunatic's path…not if he's mentioned her BY NAME…I have calls to make. End of conversation."

Jack turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, pausing in the doorway. "And for God's sake don't leave her alone for a minute…" With a final long look at Sara, he turned and stormed down the hall.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 26 to follow shortly._**

_**Author's Note:** No actual dogs were harmed in the writing of this chapter._


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf**, **vrtrakowski**, **smacky30**, **scifijoan** and **mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

**Monday, January 8, 2007** **– 1:45 pm – Quantico**

* * *

The door to the Ladies' Room slammed against the wall and the motion sensor switched on the lights. Sara stalked up and down the pink and white 10-stall room, frustrated and furious. Finally she stopped in front of one of the sinks, ran some cold water and splashed her face. 

Once she'd dried her hands and face with a few Grade Z government-issue paper towels, she stared at herself in the mirror then whirled to lean against the sink, arms crossed over her chest.

Outside, Grissom and Graham weren't exactly standing guard. Gil propped himself against the wall and Graham paced nervously back and forth in front of the door.

"Shouldn't you go after her?" Will paused questioningly.

Grissom, both hands jammed in his pockets, looked over the tops of his glasses and smiled slightly. "Oh, no…"

Confused, Graham shook his head. "She's upset…"

"Not upset…_furious_." Gil nodded toward the door. "She needs time to cool down."

Graham rubbed his jaw. "Yeah?"

"Oh yeah." Gil smiled to himself as he studied his shoes.

Will put his hand on the door and paused. "Well, I've always liked living dangerously..."

Inside, Sara had resumed her pacing. She'd just turned at the far end of the bathroom when Graham entered. Pausing in surprise, she spat, "This is the _Ladies'_ Room."

Meeting her gaze only briefly, Graham made a show of looking around the harshly lit room. "Always wanted to see how the other half lives." He approached a stall and pushed the door all the way open. "Nice…very…um…pink…" He sniffed the air, still redolent of some spearmint scented cleaner. "And _clean_."

Sara paced as Will continued his exploration. He ran his hands over a metal vending unit next to the first stall and examined the coin slots. Both were both blocked from the inside by pieces of red metal. "Hmmmm…tampons and sanitary napkins…sold out, unfortunately."

The woman narrowed her eyes and spoke in a voice dripping acid. "Why? Did you need some?"

"I just think it's unfair to make it look as if needed support is available, only to find out at the last minute it's not." Graham kept the Las Vegas CSI in his peripheral vision. "I'll be sure to mention it to Jack next time I see him…"

"I have a few things you can tell _the Director_ next time you see him." She stopped next to Will and leaned roughly against the wall. "Maybe you should take notes…"

Reaching into the back pocket of his slacks, Graham pulled out a small leather notebook. He flipped the cover open with a practiced hand, removed the pencil from its loop and brought pencil to paper. "Shoot."

"Your attempts at humor are not working…" She struggled to maintain her frown.

"Attempts…at humor…not working…" Graham murmured as he wrote. He glanced at Sara and added two heavy strokes under the word 'not.' A smile flirted briefly with his lips. Once again affecting a neutral expression, he readied himself to take more notes. "Ready."

Sara turned so Will wouldn't see the amusement on her face. "Stop it!" She started to pace again.

Graham spoke to her retreating back. "Stop what?"

"Stop trying to make me laugh!" She managed to maintain the scowl for another full minute, before amusement caught up with her and bubbled out in a giggle through a lopsided grin.

Smiling back at her, Will put his notebook away and leaned against the bank of sinks. "Oh, well…I guess I can stop now."

The agitated brunette wound down and hoisted herself up onto the pink ceramic counter at the far end of the sinks, letting her legs swing over the edge. "You really shouldn't be in here…somebody might come in…"

Graham checked his watch. "It's almost 2:00 in the morning, Sara…who do you think is going to come in here and catch me? And what would they do to me if they did?"

The two were quiet for a little while, her thinking and him waiting for her to take the conversational lead.

Just outside, a overcoat clad Mason Robichaud approached Grissom who was still resting against the wall. The older man looked up and down the hall, puzzled. "Have you seen Will?"

Gil nodded toward the door. "He's in there."

Mason looked at the door and read the sign on the wall next to it. "But that's the Ladies' Room." Shocked, he sputtered, "What's he doing in there?"

Grissom said quietly. "Trying to talk Sara down…"

"Oh." Robichaud examined the file in his hand and looked up and down the hall again with a sigh.

Gil offered. "He might be awhile…"

After a moment, Mason whispered. "Do you suppose it would be OK if I went in there?"

"I don't see why not," came the conspiratorial response.

Mason entered the Ladies' Room and peered around the corner. Sara and Will were letting a moment of silence settle between them. Graham noticed the coroner and waved. "Hey, Robby."

Absurdly, Robichaud couldn't bring himself to do anything but study the floor set with tiny pink tiles. He was a gentleman down to his toes – he had no point of reference for starting a conversation in a women's bathroom.

Graham pushed off the sink he'd been leaning against and patted Mason on the shoulder. "You didn't come in here to use the facilities, Robby…so, what's up? On your way out of here?"

Sara saw him struggling with embarrassment and realized his problem. "We're the only ones here, Dr. Robichaud. It's OK…"

He raised his head quickly and blushed scarlet. "Oh…OK…I, uh…wanted to give you…um…this report to look over…" he said, holding out the folder to Will.

"The antibody titers…yes, thank you. I'm eager to read that." Will took the report and gently steered the tongue tied coroner toward the door.

Before Graham maneuvered him into the hall, Mason looked back at the pretty young CSI. "It's been a pleasure, Sara…"

Will glanced over his shoulder at Sara, who'd jumped down from her perch and started pacing again. He said quickly, "Thanks again, Robby…see you in the morning," and hustled Robichaud through the door.

Mason overbalanced slightly when he hit he hallway. He stopped and straightened his coat, looking around for Grissom who was still leaning against the wall. "I think I've been given the bum's rush, Dr. Grissom."

"Graham?"

"Yes." Robichaud plucked his gloves from his pocket, clearly annoyed.

"It wasn't personal, Dr. Robichaud…he's got his hands full."

Mason nodded as he pulled on his gloves. "I suppose so…see you in the morning, Dr. Grissom?"

Gil gave him a half smile. "I hope so, Dr. Robichaud…I hope so."

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 1:45 pm – Washingon, DC**

* * *

Lisa King sat up in bed surrounded by notepads, cell phone, television remote, laptop, Day Timer, a large box of Godiva chocolates (roughly half the contents tasted and rejected), and an attitude. The exclusive Alan Burrows had promised at the Massaponax scene never materialized. Worse than that, the identity of the suspected kidnap victim remained a mystery. 

She'd just finished reaming Alan when her cell rang again. "Alan, I have nothing more to say to you. Get me that name!"

A brief silence was followed by a tentative voice. "Uh…is this…um…Lisa King?"

Lisa focused her frustration on the late night caller. "Who is this? How did you get this number?"

The man stammered, "Oh, uh…Ms. King…this is, um…this is Fred Grey…from the DC Surveillance Center…and uh, you gave me the number…said I should…"

Her gaze fell on the bedside alarm clock. "It's almost 2:00 in the morning, Mr. Grey…"

"I know, but…"

King used her most imperious tone. "Leave a message on my voicemail at work, Mr. Grey…and I'll…"

Grey sputtered, "I've been leaving messages and you never call me ba…"

"I am a _very_ busy woman, Mr. Grey…I will get back to you, I _assure_ you…when I have time," she lied smoothly. "Now, I'll say goodnight to you…"

"I lost my job! Because of that interview…they fired me." As he spoke, tears choked his voice and King realized the man was probably three sheets going on four.

"Hey! Listen up!" she snapped. His drunken maunderings petered out and she pounced on the man. "I'm sorry you lost your job, Mr. Grey, but honestly, how stupid do you think your employers are?"

"Wha…? But you said you'd protect my identity…you said…"

King relished the pulse of the poor man's jugular as she finished him off. "And we did that. We _did_ that, Freddie…WAKE UP, _Genius_…you work with ONE other guy. I could have spray painted you purple and they still would have known it was you. Jesus!"

The bright smell of copper permeated the room, perhaps issuing from the kill at the other end of the line. Faint words floated from the phone as she punched END. "Dumb ass."

Suddenly ravenous, King plucked a chocolate from the box of Godivas. It turned out to be a raspberry cordial – the juice dripping down her chin looked remarkably like blood.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 2:00 pm – Quantico**

* * *

Sara paced the area in front of the bathroom stalls with her arms crossed over her chest. Graham looked around the room thoughtfully "It sure is pink in here…I mean, _really_ pink." 

"It's not that surprising, is it, Will?…pink?…girls?" she pointed out the obvious.

Graham, hands clasped behind his back, turned around slowly. "Yeah, but…what do you call this color? You know, besides pink."

Sara unclenched a bit as she thought. "Ugly?"

"Oh, c'mon, Sara…I'm serious…"

"So am I…I think it's hideous…" She noticed Will's frown and looked back at the relentlessly pink tile marching around the walls. "Okay, okay…mauve maybe?"

"Mauve…" Graham leaned toward the wall to inspect a tile at close range. "What's the correct pronunciation of that word? _Maw_ve or _Mow_ve? I've heard both…"

Sara stopped pacing, hands on hips. "Why are we talking about décor in the women's washroom?"

Will paused, examining the wall for a few seconds more. Then he turned and faced her seriously. "Oh, I don't know…because other topics send you into orbit?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Touché."

Graham tilted his head and asked softly. "You ready to talk about this?"

Her response was a big exhale and a shrug.

Will half sat against the sink counter. "Remember that night you, Grissom, Willy and I ate at that Italian place…The Pines? We'd only just met…and you guys had just had a big dose of 'The Rick Culpepper Experience'…"

"Yeah…" Sara hoisted herself up on the counter at the other end of the line of sinks.

"I told you Jack Crawford has a reason for everything he does, even when it doesn't look like it…remember?"

She nodded warily, unsure where Graham was going. "Uh huh."

"It was true about Rick Culpepper and it's true about you, Sara…"

Angry all over again, she erupted, "Oh, I get it…we must keep the little CSI safe from the Big Bad Perpetrator at all cos…"

Graham upped the volume. "Sara! Stop it!" he growled. "I did not risk punishment at the hands of the Bathroom Police to listen to you whine…do you want to hear what I have to say or not?"

Stunned at Will's sudden outburst, she swallowed hard and reconsidered. After a moment, she looked away from his hard stare. "Sorry. Please…go on."

"Keeping you safe from this killer is the only reason Crawford needs to get you out of here and an excellent one, despite your opinion to the contrary…"

The chastened young woman opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it and merely nodded.

"But that's not his only reason…tell me, do you have cases…people you've lost or times when the bad guy got away…that haunt you? Invade your dreams?"

She didn't have to think hard for faces to drift across her memory…Susannah Kirkwood…Pam Adler…Kaye Shelton…Devon Malton… When she looked up to answer, she saw that Will's eyes were unfocused for a moment, making her wonder what he was remembering.

"I do…have those…yes, I have things that keep me up nights…"

Graham pulled himself back and refocused on Sara. "And you've been in the business, what?...5 years? 10?"

"13 years this spring."

"Crawford has 35 years under his belt...almost as long as you've been alive. Do you know how many Agents he's lost? 22." Faces of the ones he'd known drifted up in his mind – he shook his head angrily. "Then there're the people who were in the wrong pace at the wrong time…" Will paused, frowning. "I'm not sure Jack knows how many of those there've been anymore, but I'm one of them…and Willy. Molly, too."

Sara didn't know what to say.

"People think Jack's a cold fish. In some ways he is…it's the only way he can do the work …but he carries every death with him, Sara." A queasy feeling twisted and turned in his belly. "I think, maybe, the near misses are worse…"

"Near misses?"

"I'm a near miss…so was my family. Jack rolled the dice to catch a monster and we went down right along with him. Jack thought he was just risking my safety but…" Tears started unexpectedly and Will's face contorted with the effort to keep them at bay. "Well, he found out later how wrong he was…and now he won't do it anymore…"

"What do you mean…'won't do it'?"

Graham's voice was rough. "I heard about that decoy thing you went on for Rick Culpepper, Sara…the Strip Strangler?"

"But…I didn't…it was…"

Will nodded at the surprise on her face. "That may have been Culpepper's idea, but he did it with Jack's blessing. It was a risk…an 'acceptable risk'…to catch a serial before he killed again…"

"I know! I volunteered…I wanted to help!" she explained.

"Crawford would _never_ approve an Op like that now…and don't tell me you haven't thought of it since we found out Lark is interested in you…acting as a decoy again. You have, Sara Sidle…might as well admit it…"

The force of Graham's words pummeled her, his face an angry mask. She averted her eyes.

He slapped the counter hard, making Sara jump. _"I KNEW IT!_…well, Crawford is going to get you out of here before you get yourself killed and leave more blood on his hands." Will bent toward her to catch her gaze. "And for what it's worth, Sara, I agree with him."

Sara heaved a huge sigh and leaned her forehead against the cool tile, her back to Graham. When she spoke her voice was soft, deflated. "Believe it or not, I am not trying to be a pain in the ass, Will." She chewed on the corner of her lip. "It's not like I want to put myself in danger, but the very reasons Crawford wants me to go back to Vegas are the very reasons I would be able to help catch Lark. Nobody else has to die, Will. I can help save them."

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 2:15 pm – Quantico**

* * *

"What do you mean, you won't take her? No…I can't go commercial…it's too dangerous. Well, that's just not acceptable, Jerry." Crawford's face reddened as his level of aggravation grew. "The woman is a member of one of my teams…no, no she's not…well, that's just semantics, Jerry. She's working for me…" 

Jerome Middleton, chief of the FBI's Transportation Office, was Crawford's man when he needed emergency transport on government or military planes and helicopters. Usually accommodating, Jerry was not telling the Director what he wanted to hear this time.

"C'mon, Jerry. OK, I know you're stretched thin these days, but you've _got_ to have something… you can't or you won't? Jerry! I can't keep this woman safe here…" Jack stood and paced the few steps his phone cord allowed. "I have to get her on a plane tonight. Well, tomorrow or the next day…as soon as possible."

Crawford removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. "Well, when did _that_ ruling come down? I see…no, no, I understand…but the policy is new, can't you just…you're kidding? SHIT!…any suggestions? Air Force One…very fucking funny, Jerry. I'll just give old George a call and see what he says…what? Of course, I'm not serious! Jesus!"

Jack managed to hold it together long enough to replace the phone in its cradle. He tossed his glasses on the desk and thought briefly about sitting down at his desk.

When Jack slammed out of the room moments later, his high-backed leather office chair was spinning wildly and his knuckles were sore.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 2:15 pm – Quantico**

* * *

Miranda Robinson and Agent Foster approached Grissom outside the Ladies' Room where he was slouched against the wall. Gil looked up and nodded, then went back to studying his shoes. 

William looked around and asked, "Where's Sara?"

Gil took a deep breath and let it out. "In the bathroom."

Miranda raised her head in half a nod. "What about Will…did he come this way?"

A smile flitted across Grissom's face but that didn't distract him from his shoe scrutiny. "Oh, he's in there, too."

Foster and Miranda glanced at one another before puzzlement wrinkled their foreheads. Miranda peeked inside the nearby men's bathroom. "Is the Men's Room out of order?"

Straightening up to stretch, Gil replied. "No…Sara went into the bathroom to get a hold of herself." He sighed a little. "Will thought he could maybe talk her down…"

William faced the Ladies' Room for a few moments, then asked over his shoulder, "Shouldn't you be in there, too?"

Amused, Grissom shook his head.

"Well, I have to pee." Miranda pushed open the door marked 'Ladies.' "You guys hold down the fort…" She eyed Grissom, "Or hold up the wall."

When someone came into the washroom, Graham and Sara looked around, surprised. Miranda stared at the pair. "Having a nice chat?"

"We're discussing the décor…what do you think?" Will smirked.

The Atlanta detective walked past Sara and Will into one of the stalls, talking the whole time. "Geez, it's just awful. Why do they insist on painting women's bathrooms pink?"

The ostensible reason for her visit became obvious and Graham had the grace to blush.

"You should see the ladies' room in my building…it's pink and black." The sounds of movement came from inside the stall, then the loud gush of the toilet being flushed. "Seems like I'm always craving _Good & Plenty_…I've got half a dozen boxes in my desk…" Rustling fabric and the sharp sound of a zipper intervened. "…and I don't even _like_ licorice."

When Miranda emerged from the stall, Graham had turned away to examine the ugly pink tiles and Sara was trying desperately not to laugh out loud.

Miranda managed to get some soap (also pink) out of the dispenser and proceeded to wash her hands. In the mirror she could see Graham facing away from her, standing inches from the wall, and the younger woman covering her mouth to hold in her laughter. "What?"

Sara handed her some paper towels. "He's embarrassed…"

As Miranda dried her hands, she stepped closer to Graham and peered over his shoulder. "You _are_ embarrassed! Look at you!"

Startled, Will turned and went a deeper shade of crimson, feeling slightly foolish. Avoiding her eyes, he glanced at Sara who was suppressing her laughter but not the tears in her eyes. Finally she had to let go, dissolving in a fit of giggles.

"Oh, c'mon, Bayou Boy…what's a little pee between friends?" Miranda punched his arm, tried not to laugh and failed.

Sara was the first to regain control. "I think it's sweet…shows he's a gentleman."

Miranda wiped her eyes with the paper towel still in her hand. "How can you say that…have you seen him eat…?"

"As a matter of fact I have and I know Will has excellent manners." Sara defended the man with a warm smile.

Will toed the tiny pink floor tiles, trying to regain composure. When he looked up again, he was relieved to see both women were grinning at him.

Miranda linked her arm with Graham's. "Sara, if you really want to be alone, I will drag Mr. Graham out of here…I highly recommend the shooting range for blowing off steam and I know who has a key at this time of night." Will managed to breathe through his embarrassment, glancing at Miranda out of the corner of his eye. He touched her fingers where they grasped his bicep, gently stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.

"Actually, he's helped me get a grip about…well, you know." Sara's smile faded.

Pulling Will toward the sinks until they were both leaning against them, Miranda laughed. "That Crawford…they don't call him Mr. Subtle for nothing…"

Sara started, "I was shocked, I mean…"

But Miranda had warmed up and kept on going. "I hate it when people tell me what to do…don't I, Will?"

Graham gave an exaggerated nod and Miranda gave him a shot. "And it's always by men…doesn't it seem that way to you, Sara?"

Grinning, she started to speak, but Miranda went on, oblivious. "Arrogant men, you know the kind I mean…the ones who think they're all that. Crawford didn't handle that whole thing very well…"

"Um, no…" Sara tried to jump in.

"But you know, and I suspect this is an unpopular opinion with you, Sara, but Crawford actually probably has your best interests at heart no matter how bone-headed, chauvinistic and unnecessarily paternal his delivery…" Miranda finally had to stop for breath.

One of Sara's patented expressions of amusement lit her face. "I agree, Miranda…I didn't when I came in here" she indicated the man still linked to the detective, "but talking with Will has helped change my mind…I don't want to go back to Las Vegas, but if I have to, I have to…"

Eyes wide, Miranda bent at the waist, laughing. "Oh, Honey, if you think Crawford is going to send you back to Vegas, you don't know how this game is played."

Had the scene been a cartoon, steam would have shot out of Sara's ears. Still, Graham was sure he heard a ricochet as Sara glare shot from Miranda to him. He tried to defuse the situation but she'd already detonated.

"Not Vegas? Where then?" She paused for an instant as she realized what would probably happen. "_Not_ a safe house?! Oh my GOD! A SAFE HOUSE!?!" Her voice rose steadily until she was nearly screaming. "There is not enough nonoxynol 9 in the WORLD to hose down a safe house to the point where I'd be willing to set foot in it much less live there! MY GOD, Will…it's true? Isn't it?"

Graham turned to Miranda, saying _sotto voce_, "Good job, Hotshot. Don't try to help me anymore, OK?"

At that moment, William banged into the room, alarmed, hand on his weapon. "What's all the shouting in here? Sara, you all right?"

Pacing furiously, Sara hollered, "I AM NOT STAYING IN A SAFE HOUSE!"

Foster glance from Miranda, who was busy looking very embarrassed, to his father, who just shrugged while Sara tried to walk it off. Concerned, he stepped in front of Sara with hands raised. "Who said anything about a safe house?"

Sara did not bother to answer, but started snarling under her breath. "A fucking safe house. Nunh unh, not me…I will buy a ticket and fly to _Antarctica_ before I'll stay in any damn safe house…at least that would be _CLEAN!_..."

Everyone but Sara looked around helplessly, uncomfortably caged with a very angry CSI.

Grissom chose that moment to wade into the fray. His eyes softened when they fell on the long legged brunette, but he didn't speak or try to comfort her once he knew she was OK. Instead he focused on the group. "I just heard Crawford yelling in the conference room…wanting to know where we are…we need to…"

Bellowing out in the hall was quickly followed by the man himself. Whatever Gil wanted to say was drowned out as Jack exploded into the room, ear splitting commentary echoing off the sickly pink walls. "I go looking for my Task Force, some of the best forensic minds in the country, and I find you all jammed into the john? Since when did you start meeting in the Ladies' Room?" He skewered the Task Force with a basilisk stare. "What the fuck _is_ this? Some sort of flashback to your disco days?"

Five sets of wide eyes regarded the Director. No one spoke. Crawford huffed, "Meet me in the conference room, people," and slammed out the door, grumbling to himself.

Will leaned over quietly and whispered to his son. "Uh oh…Bathroom Police."

One by one, the Task Forced filed out until only Foster and his dad were left. "Why do I have a mental image of Imperial Stormtroopers brandishing toilet brushes dancing in my head, Dad?"

Graham grinned and shrugged as he left the room.

Miranda was waiting for him in the hall. "I'm sorry, Will…" She tried to apologize.

"Forget about it, Miranda…" He patted her arm affectionately and grinned at her. Then he quickened his pace to catch Sara up. "Sooo…whaddya think? Boss acoustics, huh?"

Jack Crawford was not amused when his Task Force walked into the conference room giggling.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 27 to follow shortly_**

_**Author's Note: **I hope Chapter 26 gave you a chuckle or two. It's meant as a gift to the many people who have stuck with me for 6 months, week after week, as Dead Ringer unfolded. Your support has meant the world to me. Thank you._


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 2:30 am – Quantico**

**

* * *

**

The Director, who had been standing near the conference room doors while the group filed in, moved to stand at the head of the table. Jack Crawford was no longer red in the face, but he was still angry and the Task Force left their giggles in the hall.

"I just got off the phone with Jerry Middleton, our Chief of Transportation. There is a new policy in place…I had thought to put Ms. Sidle on a military or government transport…" Crawford exhaled with annoyance and he practically spat out the rest of his thought, "However…this new ruling prohibits even _emergency_ use of such resources by non-government employees…"

Sara looked up, encouraged. Grissom's hand flexed where it rested at the top of her thigh.

Miranda glanced at Sara out of the corner of her eye. "You've changed your mind, then?"

"No, I have not," Jack bit out tightly.

Grissom was about to speak, but Graham got the thought out first. "You're not thinking about putting her on a _commercial_ flight? Jesus, that's too dangerous…I'd almos…"

Crawford's tone was flat. "Shut up, Will."

Graham didn't flinch but everyone else's face registered shock that the normally staid Director would be so rude. Silence reigned.

The Director sighed and continued. "Sorry…it's been a long night. I'm looking into other options…and no, Will, I am not considering commercial airlines. You're right. They're too dangerous…or rather, Justice Lark is too dangerous."

Sara shook her head slightly and reached for Grissom's hand under the table. She asked quietly, "Director Crawford…?"

Swallowing the bark beating against his lips, Crawford looked over the tops of his glasses at the Las Vegas CSI. "Ms. Sidle…?"

"I understand why you want to get me out of here and I appreciate your concern for my safety…really, I do…but I'm safe in the Academy compound, right?" Sara searched the faces of her colleagues, hoping for support. "Wouldn't it be easier for me to just stay here and continue working?"

Jack removed his glasses and sat down, tired. After a few moments he exhaled and frowned. "It's tempting…_very_ tempting…" he nodded at Sara, "to think keeping you here at the Academy would solve our problems. It won't."

Sara tried to interrupt, but Crawford held up his hand. "We're just beginning to get a handle on this guy's finances…he, apparently, has unlimited resources…which makes him even more dangerous than we thought…" Jack's gaze slid from Sara to Grissom to Graham: both men nodded in agreement. "We need you to be somewhere off the beaten track…some place we can see him coming a mile away. There are just too many people in and out of here every day…I hate to say it but the danger of infiltration is high."

Thoughts of safe houses and protective custody made her stomach churn, and though she'd seen cleaner crime scenes than some of the safe houses she'd heard about, it wasn't just germs and body fluids making her uneasy. Sara had worked almost her entire life; she'd lied about her age to get a job at fourteen and never stopped working. They wanted her to do nothing _and_ be under the thumb of how many FBI agents in whatever Godforsaken place they stuck her in? Unable to go for a walk without permission and a body guard? Might as well just shoot her now…

Once she'd hosed down whatever Hell hole they stuck her in, what would she do with herself? She'd come to DC for two reasons: to catch a serial killer and to be with Grissom. Now, they were intent on sending her away from both the investigation and her lover. Yes, a serial killer seemed to be interested in her, but how could they think she'd blithely to go off to some hole in the wall without solace or comfort? Without her work, without her mate, without question? And who was going to look out for Grissom? If bad things happened, he was sure to be right in the middle of it and she wouldn't be able to help. Thoughts tumbled over themselves in her brain even as she sputtered "But…but…I…"

"Ms. Sidle…Sara…losing you…your talent and your insight…in this investigation will be difficult, but I'd rather do without you here than regret your death forever." Crawford held her gaze for a moment. "Justice Lark is burning your name into victims now…he's gone outside his pattern and kidnapped Dorothy Culpepper…" He leaned forward seriously, catching her eye again. "The only choice I have is to get you as far away from here as I can."

Sara nodded numbly. Could she fight the FBI and Crawford? What a mess. Unconsciously she leaned into Grissom for support.

He squeezed her thigh in return. "Is a safe house the only option? What if an acceptable alternative was available?"

Sara leaned both elbows on the table and rested her forehead on her hands.

"You have something in mind, Dr. Grissom?"

Gil reddened. "Well, no, but I could…"

Tentatively, Agent Foster cut in, "I might…" He exchanged a look with his dad and his manor became more firm. "I have a place if it meets with the Director's approval."

Sara looked up hopefully. "You do?"

"My dad's parents left me a small ranch in Montana…it's in Toston, about halfway between Bozeman and Helena."

Miranda glanced from father to son, confused. "I thought Will's parents were from Louisiana?"

Foster looked a little pained and Graham said quietly, "Molly's first husband was Willy's father, Miranda…he died when William was small…"

Embarrassed, the Atlanta detective stammered, trying to recover.

"It's OK, Miranda…" Willy took pity on the woman who only seemed to open her mouth to change feet. "I don't remember him, except through stories and pictures…I lost my first dad and was lucky enough to get a second one." Foster patted Will on the shoulder.

If Graham's chest didn't actually expand with pride, his smile told Willy everything he needed to know.

"They left their ranch to Mom in one of those generation skipping things, so when she passed, it came directly to me." Foster turned to the Director. "It's on the west bank of the Missouri River…directly off Route 287…remote but relatively easy to get to on major roads."

Crawford made a few notes. "It's vacant?"

"Oh no…it's a working cattle ranch…a small one, anyway. I've kept the staff on and basically the whole operation makes just enough money to cover salaries and the taxes…but, it's nice, _really_." He looked at Sara with what he hoped was reassurance that the place was not a sty. "Since it's not costing me anything I just left it the way it was when Mom…" He had to pause a moment. Taking a breath, he went on. "I left it the way it was when Mom died."

"Sounds like a possibility, William…thank you for the offer…" Crawford stood and gathered his notes. "I'll get more details from you later so I can send a couple of agents out there ahead of Ms. Sidle."

Sara whispered. "Thank you…that's very generous, William…I'm sure it's wonderful."

Jack cleared his throat. "I don't think I need to stress how dangerous Justice Lark is or how unsafe Ms. Sidle is as long as she is here." He looked each Task Force member in the eye. "Until I am able to find appropriate transportation, Ms. Sidle is not to be left alone – ever." He paused before continuing. "Not even to go to the bathroom."

There was a light in the Director's eye, but he didn't smile and they didn't either.

Sara studied her colleagues' faces. They'd taken Crawford's warning to heart. For some reason, she did not find this comforting.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 3:00 am – Somewhere in Washington, DC**

**

* * *

**

In his command chair, Justice Lark lay dozing – mouth open, snoring, remote control at his side – he could have been any man in America asleep in front of his TV.

Except he wasn't.

"_Justy, honey…could you bring me a cup of tea?"_

Roused from a dream, Justice pushed himself out of his chair and stumbled toward the kitchen. Half asleep, he pulled the kettle to the front burner and stood dozing in front of the stove as the water heated.

"_You remember how Mama likes it, don't you, Justy?"_

Lark nodded, yawned and scratched his head. Mama does love her tea and cookies.

"_Don't forget the biscuits…and the brandy."_

"I won't Mama…" he mumbled, pulling a cup and saucer from the cupboard next to the stove. The kettle was singing by then, so he set it on a cold burner, shut off the gas and turned to the kitchen island behind him in search of tea.

There was a soft sound as he pulled the lid off of a canister marked TEA. Nimble fingers plucked out a single bag. He tried to focus his eyes to read the tag, but all he could make out was the color orange. Twinnings something, he thought muzzily.

"_Justy? Are you coming?"_

"Yes, Mama…" Quickly assembling the cup, he poured the hot water and snagged a couple of large McVitie's Rich Tea biscuits from the cellophane package on the counter.

"_I'm waiting for you, honey…"_

"On my way…" Balancing the cup and cookies, Lark paused at the bar and tucked a bottle of Hiram Walker Apricot Brandy under his arm.

xxx

In the next room, Dorothy Culpepper was lost in sleep. Bits of non-surgical face lift lay on the floor around the bed – elastic bands, sticky pads, lift tape – and her skin was red where she'd pulled them off. A handmade quilt in soothing shades of blue covered her from chin to toe, yet she shivered in her sleep because of the chill in the room and the wet sheets beneath her.

Dorothy's face contorted…a dream, perhaps.

Justice stood at the side of the bed staring down at the woman who was not his mother...was she? Mama was younger and prettier, wasn't she? But that was her face, wasn't it? Didn't his Mama just ask for tea? He always brought her her tea…

Blinking his eyes repeatedly, he couldn't understand what he was seeing.

Uncertainly, he whispered, "Mama…I have your tea…" Justice set the cup and cookies down on the bedside table and pulled the brandy out from under his arm.

Yawning again, he scratched the back of his head. He held up the brandy to the sleeping woman. "I've got your favorite…"

The top of the sweet liqueur was stuck – he worked to twist it loose.

Dorothy opened her eyes and realized the bad dream she'd had wasn't nearly so terrifying as the nightmare she'd been living since Sunday afternoon.

"Justice…"

Once he'd spiced up the tea with three fingers of brandy, he straightened and held the cup out to the woman in the bed.

"I'm sorry you had to wait…" Justice tilted his head, puzzled. "Mama?"

Quilt clutched modestly to chest, Dorothy struggled to sit up in the bed. She was thirsty, hungry, and she was really starting to need a drink.

Still frightened but trying to connect with her captor, she smiled nervously and reached out to accept the cup with trembling fingers. "Thank you…" Dorothy swallowed, then licked her dry chapped lips. "Your mother always loved a comforting cup of tea…"

Lark's sleepy smile vanished. "You're not Mama…" Memory returned to him like a sickening, searing spear in the middle of his consciousness… "_Oh my God oh my God oh my God"_

Dorothy's fingers were centimeters from the cup. The tone in Lark's voice made her look up and the look on his face made her even more afraid.

Loathing…fear…disgust…

The terrified woman watched the cup and saucer tumble through the air. It hit the edge of the bed and shattered on the floor in the middle of a puddle of brandied tea.

Justice turned without a word and stalked out of the bedroom.

Helplessly, she started to cry then crossed herself and tried to pray. _"Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee…Blessed art Thou…thirsty…oh, Blessed Mother…I am so thirsty…"_

Tea had soaked the edge of the quilt. Unable to help herself, Dorothy greedily sucked the liquid into her parched mouth.

When that was gone she peered over the edge of the bed at the lost tea, bereft. In the same way that animals can smell a watering hole miles away during the dry season, the moist smell both beckoned to and tormented the poor woman. If she could have gotten to it, she'd have licked the floor.

But there was something wonderful much closer. Brandy. Bedside table. So close...

Dorothy stretched as far as she could but the bottle was out of reach. She gazed at that promise of oblivion for a full five minutes before she gave up.

"_Help me, Mother…please, help me." _Dorothy used her fingers as a makeshift Rosary hoping the repetitions would soothe her as they had most of her life, but she couldn't keep track.

The chains on her ankles were short, preventing her from turning on her side…back and knees aching, she eased herself as best she could.

Panic rose in her throat: she knew he wouldn't answer…so what was the point in calling out? There was no point…no point…useless to waste her strength…

"Justice…are you out there? Please…please…"

Her cries went unanswered by Justice. Perhaps by God, too.

Eventually sleep took her again. She dreamed of Bernadette Soubirous, the Basque girl whose vision of a beautiful lady told her to drink from the spring in the grotto of Massabielle.

But no matter how hard Dorothy looked, she couldn't find it and she continued to thirst.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 3:15 am – Stafford, Virginia**

**

* * *

**

"I'm sorry, Lisa…I don't know what kind of progress you think I'm going to make at 3:00 in the morning, but NO, I don't have any news…I'll call you as soon as I learn something…yes, I'm planning to get up early, just not _this_ early…oh, for fuck's sake, Lisa, do _not_ schedule a PROMO for a special report…what are you going to say, 'we _think_ someone's been kidnapped, stay tuned?'"

Susie Gold tried not to eavesdrop, but honestly, that Lisa woman was so loud it was impossible not to hear her screeching. The _neighbors_ could probably quote chapter and verse.

She yawned and stretched and turned over in bed, hoping Alan would have given that bitch the required pound of flesh soon so they could cuddle awhile before she had to get up to go to work.

"All right!…I'll ask her…_again_…" Burrows put his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone and whispered "Susie…honey…you awake?"

Gold grumbled, "Who could sleep through Call of the Wild Woman?"

"Shhhh…she's got ears like a bat…"

King's voice…tinny and surprisingly loud, sounded clearly. "I heard that!"

Susie rolled over to face him, annoyed. "What is it, Alan?"

"Tell me again what you heard…about the kidnap victim…"

Slowly, trying to be patient, the sleepy redhead recited her story. "OK…OK…I overheard the Captain say there'd been an alert to look for somebody…I didn't hear who…all I heard was that the person was in or from one of those little burgs out on 28…"

Burrows thought a moment. "You mean Warrenton…somewhere out there?"

"No…no…no, Alan. Warrenton is on _29_…this was on _28_… Culpeper or someplace…"

Alan's face went white and Lisa King went completely apeshit.

Susie was right – the ruckus was so loud it woke the neighbors, who banged on the wall.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 3:30 am – Quantico**

**

* * *

**

The atmosphere in conference room 1516 lightened considerably after Crawford went to investigate his mysterious 'other options' for getting Sara out of town. Since they were all awake, the remaining members of the team decided to try to get some work done while the Director was busy.

Sara chose to comb through Rick Culpepper's file again. When Justice Lark had become the focus of the investigation, Culpepper had dropped off their radar. The idea that Lark might be trying to ruin his twin's life was now a theory worth exploring, so Sara thought she'd spend her last hours on the Task Force tying up loose ends.

Grissom sat close by trying to reconstruct Lark's movements using the financial records Miranda and Will had come up with. So far, he had been able trace him across several states during the time periods when the early murders took place.

"Grissom…" Sara looked up from Culpepper's personnel folder.

"Hmmm…?"

"What was the name of the first victim? The Duluth one…" She put her finger in the file to keep her place.

Gil pulled his attention away from what he was doing and thought a moment. "Emily Harper…why?"

"She had a bunch of siblings…five or six…a lot, I remember…"

"Wait a minute…let me get the file…" Grissom got up and went to the individual stacks of files and reports they'd set up for each victim. Finding what he wanted he sat again and paged through the one containing the victim's personal history. "Here it is…she was the youngest of six siblings…what did you find?"

Sara placed the file she'd been studying between them so Gil could see. "Rick Culpepper was married briefly in 1990…it lasted less than a year…to a girl from Duluth named Grace Harper."

"You're thinking she was related?"

"Well, Duluth is sort of small…and even though Harper isn't uncommon as names go…what if this woman was a cousin or even a sibling?" A thrill ran up her spine as she and Grissom connected. "Grace Harper would be the first direct connection we've found between Culpepper and the old murder victims…"

Gil finished her thought, "Which, if true, makes you wonder why Special Agent Culpepper failed to mention it…"

"Exactly."

Grissom pored over his report looking for more names. "Wait…wait…here's a list of the Harper children…Emily, Joshua, Cecelia, Timothy, _Grace_ and Polly…"

"Do you have their ages? Culpepper's wife was…" Sara consulted the file. "30 when they married…so she'd have been born in 1960, same as Culpepper and Lark…"

"No, the ages aren't…" Grissom flipped quickly to the back of the file with photocopies of the article about Emily's murder. "Maybe…_yes_…remember…the oldest sister, Polly, died in a boating accident in…1972. The siblings ages are listed at the obituary…Grace was 12…so she'd have been born in 1960."

"This could be the same person…we need to confirm…" Excited, Sara half rose, intent on getting to one of the laptops on the conference room table.

"Sara…" Grissom put his hand on her arm so she couldn't get up.

"Hmm…?" His tone made her pause.

"The Harper family was on vacation when Polly died…guess where?" He smiled, triumphant.

"Where?"

He held the open file out to her. "International Falls, Minnesota."

"Lark's home town…" Sara's eyes widened. "WAIT!" She pulled the folder out of Grissom's hands. "Emily Harper…she was found in a parking lot…"

Gil's forehead creased, trying to follow. "It was a funeral home…Northern something…"

"The Northern Rest," she tossed out, rifling through page after page of Emily's history.

"Yeah, so?"

She found the page and pointed to a name. "Who found the body and called it in?"

Grissom's face lit up as he read. "Vernon Scarey."

"How much do you want to bet Vernon Scarey is somehow related to the owners of Scarey-Lark Funeral Apartments?"

The Las Vegas CSIs looked around at their colleagues, excited. Sara shouted and motioned them close, "Guys…guys…we may have a connection between Lark and Culpepper and the first murder…Finally!"

As the group crowded round offering slaps on the back and congratulations, Sara wondered again how she could stay on despite Crawford's intention to send her away. Things had happened so fast…and now they had this new connection. If they worked hard enough, maybe they could catch him before…

The team's little celebration was interrupted by an equally happy Crawford entering the room rubbing his hands together. "OK people…we're in luck…I've confirmed transport." He nodded to Sara. "Ms. Sidle…pack your bags…your flight leaves at midnight."

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 4:00 am – Somewhere in Washington, DC**

**

* * *

**

Sleep evaded him. Though he did everything to direct his attention away, he couldn't forget the terrible loose end chained up in the next room. He'd made a mistake…he'd made…

"_You could bury that mistake…"_ a voice whispered in his head.

Justice answered as if the speaker was in the room with him. "I don't take orders from you anymore."

He raised his head and listened for a moment. Silence.

Relaxing into the custom space foam command chair, he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

But still the voice needled him. _"Was __she__ part of the Mission? You screwed up…"_

Disgusted, he pulled off his headset. He'd paid $300 for the special noise cancelling headphones and they didn't fucking work. Disconnecting the cord from the console he threw them across the room, then got up and started to pace in front of the video wall.

Crying drifted out of the bedroom. "Please…I need help… Justice? Are you there?"

The inner voice turned nasty. _"You'd __succeeded__…Culpepper is in jail…reputation ruined…all that was left was the Revelation! But __you__ had to stick your dick where it doesn't belong! Now the Mission is in jeopardy!"_

Lark slammed his hands over his ears, crumpling as pain tried to shred his insides. "NO! NO! NO! You're dead! You're DEAD!" Tears streaked his face as he struggled to make it back to the command chair.

Fainter this time, the mistake's pleas wriggled through his fingers and wormed their way into his ears. "Water…please, I need some water…just a sip…please, for the love of God…"

Strident…demanding…the voice boomed. _"__Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice; but only accident here below…__"_

"Juuuustice! Please…" the mistake whined incessantly.

Panting, looking around the room frantically for the man who'd been dead for years, Justice screamed. "Stop it! Please, Papa…"

"_Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death…you must not forget…never forget!"_

The voice was thunderous – Lark could feel each word in his chest.

Desperate, one hand still uselessly covering an ear, he pawed through the pockets of his command chair…there was a gun…he had a gun…that would make it stop for good…

That would make it stop forever.

Relief flooded through him when his fingers skated over the icy steel of the answer. Death…the answer was death.

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 28 to follow shortly.**_


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N:** Special thanks to my friends **csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan** and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

**Justice**

_In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world.__  
__Emile M. Cioran_

**March 1979 – International Falls, Minnesota **

* * *

As if the surface tension of her life was lost when her husband died, Dolores Lark collapsed and evaporated completely six weeks after Honor wandered drunk into the night to die of exposure. That far north, the ground is too frozen to open graves in winter, so with both parents in what amounted to cold storage, Justice left International Falls for good and never looked back. 

The 19 year old had never felt so completely alone. Scholarship at St. Cloud University gone, his only skills in a profession forever blocked to him, he had no idea what to do next. The only thing he had was a small life insurance policy from his mother. Five thousand dollars wasn't much, but when his father's boss, Gerald Scarey, rented his parents' house out from under him in a fit of pique, at least he wasn't forced into the street.

Vernon Scarey bought the contents of the Lark house for much less than it was worth. At that point, getting out of a town where no one would speak to him was more important than extracting full measure from the pompous Scarey eldest son. Justice pocketed the five hundred extra dollars, packed everything he owned into his dad's 1971 Hornet wagon and headed south on Route 53.

At first, his only thought was to leave International Falls. He'd had a few vague thoughts about California, but nowhere in particular called out to him. The day before he left town, a note arrived from his old pal Harry and that gave him an entirely new sense of direction.

_Hey Justy,_

_Need you to do me a big favor. I left some stuff in a storage unit in Chisholm. The lease is up and they're going to auction the contents if I don't get it out of there by the end of March._

_I can't take care of this myself. Picayune, Mississippi is worse than prison…my grandmother and two uncles hardly let me out of their sight, much less the state._

_It would be VERY BAD if they auctioned the stuff in that unit, Justy. You understand?_

_Have fun with it, burn it…Hell, I don't care what you do with it, just so long as it doesn't come anywhere near the police or my old man. _

_Farrell Brothers Storage on 53, Unit 846. Here's the key._

_Thanks, man._

_Harry_

The hundred or so miles to Chisholm seemed like a new beginning to Justice. He wasn't quite sure what he'd find, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't have to buy a _Playboy_ for the rest of his life and frankly, he'd missed Harry and his Playroom. It was a relief to have something else to think about besides his possibly non-existent future.

Farrell Brothers Storage was surprisingly sophisticated for a town like Chisholm. Number 846 was a 5' x 5' temperature controlled interior unit, and a good thing, too, because film cannot take extremes of heat and cold.

Justice stood just inside the door looking at stacks and stacks of neatly labeled boxes. Harry's entire film collection…going back 20 years, at least. Cameras, too. Projectors. Film editing and splicing tools. The works. At the very rear of the unit was a full dark room (enlarger, safe lights, trays, timers) disassembled and carefully stored.

As he thought about it, he realized that Harry, ever the gadget geek, had probably put all this stuff in storage when he'd switched to video. Opening a box here and there, he was pleased to see carefully catalogued stills, too. Justice found his cock aching pleasantly as he browsed.

Wandering among the cartons, delicious tingles slid down the back of his neck all the way to his balls. When he found a box from the summer of 1972, he tossed the lid in the corner and pulled through the contents. Sure enough, there were stills of Mary Elizabeth Flowers…his first. He dropped his pants right there and jacked off to an 8x10 glossy circle of memories spread out around him on the floor.

Hours later, after he and Mary Elizabeth had gotten reacquainted several times, Justice put away his playthings and carefully locked the unit, got back in his car and drove until he found the nearest motel. It was after dark and too late to do anything that day, but in the morning he had to find some place to rent a trailer…there was too much stuff to jam in the Hornet.

And he had to take it all. Grinning, he slept better than he had in days. That idiot Harry, asking him to clean up his mess…the man had no idea what was hidden away in that storage unit.

Why, it was nothing less than a new career.

**March 1979 – Duluth, Minnesota **

* * *

Justice Lark drove around Duluth searching for a place to stay. Excitement over possibilities in the U-Haul overshadowed the uneasiness in his belly. He never wondered why the first place he went with a load of illegal porn was Roger Culpepper's hometown, but if he no longer had Honor to rebel against, the idea of a disapproving Judge Culpepper filled in nicely. Youth and hormones gave his natural arrogance a kick start and quickly overcame a meek upbringing. 

Money was going to be an issue…soon. More important than a place to sleep was suitable storage for the things in the U-Haul. If his childhood had taught him anything, it was thrift: Justice knew how to live on nothing. He could even go hungry if he had to.

After a few days at the Bide-A-Wee motel ($25 a night), Lark rented rooms in a warehouse downtown. Most of the units lacked amenities such as proper kitchens and bathrooms. Instead, there were hotplates, toilets and sketchy bathing arrangements. Struggling artists and musicians had dragged the place into a modest renaissance…if you didn't mind noise at all hours and the smell of pot, you could get a lot of space for very little money.

xxx

Old Harry had been a _serious_ collector. In addition to films featuring guests of the Scarey-Lark funeral home, there were hundreds of black and white stag movies from the 40s and 50s, and a number of good, explicit titles from Europe. The stills were from the Playroom (including the lovely Mary Elizabeth), as well as thousands of commercially produced images dating back to the 1800s.

The collection was nothing less than a short history of pornography. Naked women, men, breasts, cocks, beavers, ponies, Rin Tin Tin…Harry liked everything (and everyone). His interest in necrophilia was well represented, but that was all home made. Clearly, he was a man unafraid to push the envelope.

The sheer volume of material was a bit overwhelming. Lark's previous experience with pornography was watching Harry's 'home movies' and a few anxious trips to the college newsstand to buy _Screw _on the sly. When everything had been inventoried, Justice splurged and bought a bottle of wine to toast his resuscitated future. He didn't know the first thing about marketing porn, but he could learn…oh yes, he could learn.

So began Justice Lark's second education. His apartment bordered the red light district. As the weather warmed, he made it his practice to cruise the neighborhood adult shops every evening – The Bachelor's Library, Wabasha Book, The Electric Fetus, Crown News. Soon he knew what kind of porn they were selling and how much it cost, when and how often new stock came in and most importantly, what sold best.

Justice took a day job at Lake Shore Labs, the biggest photo lab in the Duluth: might as well get paid to learn how to use the gear Harry left him, he reasoned. The budding entrepreneur walled off an area in his warehouse rooms to house the dark room and with the addition of a little chemistry, was eventually able to make professional copies of his black and white films and stills.

An unexpected benefit of working in a big lab like Lake Shore was the technicians all knew about dirty pictures. Lots of amateur erotica turned up for printing and processing…everything from tasteful nudes to outright raunch. Customers had no idea duplicate prints…sometimes a lot of them…were made from the juicier negatives. Once they knew he could be trusted, the lab guys shared their personal collections with Lark, never realizing they were teaching what amounted to an independent study in Pornography 101.

Justice watched and listened, made notes and thought about his future. Late at night, cock aching from abuse, he'd smile to himself. He was sitting on a gold mine…

…in Roger Culpepper's back yard. _"Fuck you, old man."_

**September 1979 – Duluth, Minnesota **

* * *

There is an innocence about middle America that allows oddly named people and their professions to coexist in blissful ignorance. The long time owners of Crown News, a very adult bookstore on the corner of North Lake and West Michigan Avenues, were Richard Ruby and Dick Diamond – better known as Big Dick and Little Dick respectively. 

The Crown had been a fixture in downtown Duluth for years. Originally an open air newsstand, it evolved into and thrived as a magazine/tobacco shop until area property values sank, taking business right along with it. Adult books and novelties kept the place afloat until that was all they sold. The owners, both practical men, tossed out the mainstream and embraced the fringe.

Pornography was a growth industry in the downtown area, supporting a number of adult shops and theaters. The Dicks were the first to offer photographs and 8 mm films no one else would touch. No children and no snuff, but everything else was fair game. "_We specialize in the unique and unusual"_ advertised their philosophy from the shop window.

xxx

By Fall, Justice had done all his homework. He'd hung out at the local porn shops, bought enough merchandise so as not to call attention to himself, and gotten to know the clerks and proprietors. His coworkers had told him about their attempts to sell smut (including some hair raising brushes with the law), thereby making a lot of naive mistakes for him. Over the summer he'd produced enough copies to start thinking about selling…but where?

He decided to start with the Dicks. The Crown really did specialize in the unique and unusual, and in the porn business that meant fetishes and bestiality and the darker fantasies…pretty much anything other than garden variety fucking. Well, he had ton of that.

It was a match made in Heaven.

Or maybe, someplace a little lower down.

**July 1983 – Duluth, Minnesota**

* * *

Justice discovered that sex – any kind of sex – sells. The weird stuff brought top dollar and the _really_ weird stuff – like someone having various kinds of sex with a corpse – was so rare, "price is no object" almost always accompanied an inquiry. 

Of course, there was a risk. Most of his films were illegal. But both Dicks were careful and Justice, having barely escaped the law once for his necrophilic escapades, took steps to become the invisible man. At the Crown, he was known as John Thomas: the obvious penis reference made Big Dick and Little Dick smile behind his back even while their own nicknames did not. Amusement aside, he was their only supplier on the death side of sex; they were happy to pay him in cash…no paper trail for him or for them.

Long hair and a beard did a lot to obscure his identity. The Salvation Army Thrift Store provided an appropriate wardrobe. He went further by affecting tinted eyeglasses, finally settling on Ray-Ban Wayfarers after seeing ads for _Risky Business_.

Risky business, indeed.

He'd used his own name and social security number when he took the job at Lake Shore Labs, but that had lasted only a few months. Since then, cash and carry had been the rule and Justice Lark officially ceased to exist. Later, when serious money started rolling in, he ran into a problem.

He needed access to a bank account and for that he had to have someone else's social security number.

It was easy to assume his father's identity for banking and income tax purposes because he'd never gotten around to letting the government know the man was dead. On paper, Honor Lark suddenly made good after years of virtual poverty.

xxx

Technology handed the sex business a money machine in the early 80s: home video cassette recorders. Justice and the Dicks pounced on it early and made a killing. Even in the early days when VCRs were $1000 or more, they had customers who snapped tapes up, wanting to watch porn on TV along with their kid's first steps and _Raiders of the Lost Ark_.

Soon, films that had never sold worth beans got dumped onto 'classic porn' anthology videos. Patrons who only bought films here and there could suddenly get HOURS of sex on a single tape. Did they care that the movies weren't really classics? Of course not. They thought they were getting a bargain, and they were.

In addition to store sales, the Dicks placed small text ads in men's magazines like _Argosy_ and _Popular Mechanics_. A few special requests became _a lot_ of special requests and wish lists from men who would never pass through the doors of a smut shop.

The first "Crown Jewels" catalog was a single page menu of titles, descriptions and prices…no frills. Everything they had on hand blew out the door and they were inundated with requests for more 'catalogs.' Justice happily supplied them with hundreds of copies from Harry's collection in addition to his usual 'speciality' items.

_Sex on Steel_ became an underground classic: basically plotless, it featured an anonymous one legged man having sex with the corpse of a young woman who had committed suicide. There was something paradoxically compelling and repulsive about the woman's serene beauty in contrast to the vertical cuts in her wrists. The fact that her 'partner' was able to perform multiple times, ejaculating on her belly, breasts and in her mouth might also have had a little something to do with its popularity.

The money poured in.

Once the mail order business took off, the Dicks kept the Duluth storefront because they liked having a place to go during the day. It also allowed them to keep track of trends in the trade: when walk-in customers started asking for something, they knew it would sell and could invest without worry. They might be selling pornography, but it was still a business and they saw no reason to take foolish risks.

For example, some would have thought an attempt to expand _The Crown Jewels_ internationally was doomed to fail, given the plentiful, good quality porn available in Europe. But there is just something about fresh faced American girls…the Dicks produced a few films that sold like hotcakes worldwide. Then they discovered an unexpectedly large market in South America and Eastern Europe for death sex items. Every time they tried something new, they doubled or tripled their profits.

And so did Justice.

He squirreled his money away and bought a few books on investing. Real estate, bonds, commodities…he dabbled in all of them…made mistakes, learned, eventually made a profit and assembled quite a portfolio. After that, he bought books on creating a successful a business plan. Porn, party supplies, power tools…the product didn't matter, but the plan did…and he wanted an empire someday.

_Cold Fire, Incorporated_ was born in 1980. Justice banked his first million by 1983.

After that, he let his money make money and turned his attention to other things.

Or rather, someone.

His identical twin, Rick Culpepper.

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 29 to follow shortly._**


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N: **Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process. Special thanks to **The Ming** for support above and beyond the call this chapter.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE**

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 6:00 am – Quantico**

* * *

The Academy security officer stopped the cruiser in front of the dorm. Grissom exited the back seat and held out his hand to help Sara from the car. 

"Thanks for the lift, Officer Portine." She tried to smile her gratitude, but only managed a grimace.

Maurice Portine twisted in the front seat to see his passengers. "The emergency numbers are programmed into your phones. Call if you see anything out of the ordinary."

One arm around Sara, Grissom bent slightly into the still open door. "We will…and thanks again."

Door shut, the big car moved a few feet forward along the curb and stopped. The two tired CSIs watched for a moment, puzzled, until they realized the guard wouldn't leave until Sara was safely inside the building.

"I can't believe they gave us our phones back…" Sara exhaled noisily, not wanting to go inside. The dorm meant packing to leave and defeat. She'd rather face a meeting with Justice Lark than go meekly into exile.

"Crawford is taking the threat to your safety very seriously…" Grissom felt Sara tense beside him. "I know you don't agree, but he's right…this is for your own goo…"

The minute those words passed his lips, he knew he'd made a mistake. She impaled him with a look of betrayal and pulled away, slamming through the double sets of glass doors into the dormitory foyer. Gil sighed and let her go, then turned and waved to Officer Portine. Maurice sounded his horn once and drove off into the darkness.

Inside, the guard at the ID station was immediately on alert when he saw that Sara was agitated and alone. He jumped up from the desk, hand on his gun.

"Are you all right, Miss?" Barely looking at her, Officer Phil Fender placed himself between her and the door with weapon drawn just as Grissom pushed through the double doors.

"Hands above your head!"

Stunned silence followed. It took a few moments for Gil to understand what was happening. Images flashed across his brain rapid fire: the yawning barrel of the gun, the officer's pupils wide from an adrenaline rush, a look of horror on Sara's face…

"I say again…hands above your head!"

Slowly, Grissom's hands rose as if by themselves. The gloves he'd been pulling off dropped to the floor at his feet.

In another few seconds, Fender recognized Grissom. Shoulders slumping he carefully lowered his weapon. "Geez…Dr. Grissom…I'm sorry…" He reholstered the gun and stood panting and red faced trying to calm himself down.

Sara had watched the scenario unfold, frozen in place. Grissom was the first to recover. He bent to retrieve his gloves.

"That's okay Officer…Fender," he paused as he read the man's name badge. "Ms. Sidle's safety is paramount…she came in by herself…that could easily have meant she was in danger." Straightening, he offered the flustered guard his hand.

While the men were making peace, Sara went to Gil's side, relieved and embarrassed her annoyance had caused such a dangerous scene. "Are you all right?"

Grissom nodded and the guard backed away toward the ID station.

"I'm sorry, Officer Fender…I didn't think…" She started to speak, but trailed off, not sure what to say.

Still embarrassed, the guard shuffled papers at his desk. "Just doing my job, ma'am."

She stammered, "Well, um…thank you…"

The words hung in the air for a moment until Grissom propelled them toward the bank of elevators. Thankfully a car was available immediately and they disappeared inside.

Officer Fender shook his head and made a notation in his log.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 6:00 am – Quantico**

* * *

Will Graham looked up as Crawford came into his Academy office with two cups of coffee. He accepted one gratefully. "Who are you going to send to interview Culpepper?" 

Jack opened a drawer and pulled out a small cardboard box filled with packets of powdered creamer and sugar. "Do you want to do it?" He extracted the items he wanted and shoved the box toward Graham.

Graham held up a hand and shook his head. "Oh, no…Culpepper hates my ass." He blew on the hot coffee before taking a sip. "Grissom should do it…he's already established rapport…"

Crawford dumped creamer and sugar into his coffee, failing in his attempts to blend it in with a slim red plastic straw. Irritated, he tossed it on the desk and rifled through a drawer until he found a spoon. He glanced at Graham as he stirred. "Very funny…"

"Well, Jesus, Jack…Culpepper despises everybody under the best circumstances…according to Willy, he's not any better in jail…" Graham tilted his head waiting for Crawford to respond. He'd never understood Jack's willingness to tolerate the abrasive young agent. As he watched Crawford grimly stir his coffee, he tried a softer tack. "Maybe you should go…you know, to tell him about his mother…"

The Director sat back in his chair remembering the last two meetings he'd had with Rick…both were loud and very, very ugly. _"How could I have been so wrong about Culpepper? People kept trying to tell me but I just wouldn't listen…"_

Graham's antennae twitched. "You can't blame yourself, Jack…"

Crawford's face froze. Only his eyes shifted to take in his friend, then shut quickly against the truth. "Don't do that, Will…that thing you do. Just don't."

Will sighed and drank the last of the coffee. He leaned forward in his chair to set the empty cup on the edge of Jack's desk. With one elbow resting on a knee, he massaged his forehead wearily. "Sorry…I'm tired." He looked up and waited until Crawford opened his eyes again. "But it really isn't your fault."

"I heard you the first time…" Crawford plucked Will's cup from the edge of the desk and dropped it in the trash can. "OK, I agree that Dr. Grissom should talk with Rick…first, to tell him about the kidnapping…and then find out why he didn't mention his connection to Emily Harper."

Graham smiled slightly. Subject closed…moving on. "CSI Sidle has picked up a number of vital clues in her short time here…that's just the latest. It'll be a shame to lose her…"

The Director frowned, shooting Graham a withering look. "Don't tell me you think she's better off here?"

"Actually, I do…" Graham held up his hands as Jack's face went beet red. "Hold on a minute…"

Crawford exploded out of his chair and stalked around the room, waving his arms. "You, of all people, know how dangerous these nuts can be…look at what happened to you…" He started to meet Will's eyes, but couldn't.

Will sat where he was, raising his voice to be heard. "That's right…I had my gut ruined by one nut and my face rearranged by another…"

Wind knocked out of his sails, Jack stood head down, one fist on his hip. As Graham spoke, the Director's jaw muscles knotted and released repeatedly.

"…and those aren't your fault, either, Jack." Will's voice softened. "I was mad as Hell at you for sending me in the last time…I hated you for making me go one on one with my fear, but I went under my own steam." Unconsciously his fingers traced now-invisible wounds on his cheeks. "Molly?…well, I screwed things up with her on my own, too." He choked out a bitter laugh. "So, you're off the hook."

"Swell…" The regret in Crawford's eyes was at odds with the buttoned up façade he presented in his work.

"Look, all I'm saying is CSI Sidle will be vulnerable during transport…no matter how careful you are. I think that outweighs the danger of keeping her here, but you'll do what you think is best…you always do." Graham stood and walked over to his old friend, laying a hand lightly on his bicep. "Just make sure you're really sending her away for her own safety and not because it'll make you feel better about the times you rolled the dice and lost."

Will walked out of the office and closed the door softly behind himself.

Crawford sat behind his desk, thoughtful. Eventually he shook his head. No, it was all too tempting…Sara Sidle would be safer in Montana, far away from Justice Lark. He told himself that feeling of dread banging around in his gut was just nerves that would pass when Sara was safely in the air.

He was wrong.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 6:00 am – CNN News Network – Washington, DC**

* * *

Lisa King did not usually hit the studio quite so early, but she had good reason today. She was determined to scoop the other networks on the Dorothy Culpepper kidnapping. The minute she had another source, she was going to break the story no matter what Alan said. 

"Him and his little dispatcher…'Call of the Wild Woman'…stupid cunt, you have _no_ idea…"

Grumbling to herself, she nearly ran down her cameraman, Chandler Harris.

King exploded, "Watch where you're going! I'm walking here!" She gave him one of her deadly glares and barreled on toward her office.

Harris trailed behind her. "Miss King…Lisa…wait…"

The little woman could cover ground when motivated: Harris finally caught her upstairs as she was unlocking her office door. "Lisa…I'm glad I caught you…"

Lisa struggled briefly with the lock, barely sparing her colleague a look. "Sorry about that, Chan…I'm in a hurry today…I'll buy you lunch, OK?" Once the door was open, she tried to slip in and close it, leaving Harris on the other side, but he wedged himself in the doorway.

"Jesus, Lisa…this is not about you almost running me down…but lunch would be nice…I'm thinking pizza."

King, who had made it to her desk, gave him a narrow eyed stare and said nothing.

Harris swallowed hastily. "OK, OK…no pizza…"

"What is it, Chan…I'm busy."

"Did you know the FBI is getting ready to FedEx somebody to Montana?" He grinned triumphantly as he shared his news.

Lisa paused, confused. Seeing no connection to anything she was interested in, she tried to dismiss the young man. "How nice for the FBI…really, Chan…I'm trying to tie up…"

"Fine…I'll just mosey on over to Lahiri's office…he'll be along soon and I'm sure he'll be interested." Harris backed out of the room and closed the door softly.

A minute passed. Then two. Completely unable to ignore the bait, Lisa King stormed away from her desk and flung open the door. She ran right into Chandler Harris who was waiting on the other side. "Curious?"

King gasped and clutched her chest. "Dammit, Chan…I hate it when you do that!"

"If you'd listen to me, it would never happen again…" Chan gauged the frown on the reporter's face and decided to quit while he was ahead. "Look, my girlfriend works in the security office at FedEx…" Harris followed King back into her office. "Something is going on over there because they are doing security sweeps of the facility for some important person who'll be taken out of there tonight as a passenger."

Lisa chewed her lip. "On FedEx?"

"Yep."

"That's it? I mean, that could be anybody…OK, I admit, it's odd…" Lisa leaned back in her chair, thinking. "What makes you think it's connected to anything I'm working on?"

Chandler's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, Stacey overheard the assistant to the facility manager talking to her boss. This all has to do with a whole string of murders and this person may be a target…that's why the weird transport…oh, and they're not Federal…it's a civilian."

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 6:15 am – Somewhere in Washington, DC**

* * *

Gun oil was bitter on his tongue. Cold at first, the barrel warmed quickly in his mouth and the steel clattered hard against his teeth as he tried to find a comfortable position… 

He just couldn't do it.

He'd stared at that pistol for two hours but when it came down to it, he couldn't pull the trigger. Pulling the muzzle from between his lips, he flung it across the room. The safety was off and the weapon discharged when it hit the wall. The upper left panel of the video wall exploded, spitting sparks and shards of glass everywhere.

In the next room, The Mistake wailed in fear.

Overcome with self loathing, he pounded his fits on the arms of the command chair, accidentally striking the keyboard he'd pushed aside earlier.

The 15 remaining screens sprang to life at full volume. Music, almost unrecognizable at peak intensity, resonated in his chest.

Justice Lark scrambled to retrieve the keyboard where it had fallen next to the chair, frantically pushing the key combination to back off the volume.

Gratefully the sound receded. Tendrils of smoke from the gunshot still hung in the air around him, coating him with the smell of cordite…making him cough.

It took a few moments for Justice to take in the images dancing across the wall, but as soon as he did, he was entranced.

Sidle.

Beautiful Sidle…

Each screen played a different film loop from the Mission Hill site. On the periphery were pristine snow scenes with some part of the Messenger in the shot: hair curling over a shoulder, pale breasts, The Message, frost sprinkled pubic hair with the word Sidle just visible on the thigh.

In the center, four screens combined to show a single image. Sidle in the snow, frozen breath wreathed around her head. Much like Wallace Stevens' anecdotal jar in Tennessee that "took dominion every where," the landscape was forever refocused and changed by her presence.

The new center around which his world revolved.

Gooseflesh rose on his body, followed immediately by heat.

Doubt niggled at him. What of The Mission?

The Mistake cried out piteously from the bedroom.

He tried to drown out the noise. "Screw your Mission, Papa…I have one of my own. Do you hear me?!?"

Justice paused to listen. Nothing.

On screen, everything was white. Snow covered branches trimmed the site like lace. Sidle moved carefully, turning her head this way and that…looking for something.

"I'm here…I'm right here…oh, God, see me…notice me…"

As if she'd heard his prayer, Sidle turned slightly, breath rising like a self-made halo, watch cap dark against the pristine snow. One delicate hand reached for him, beckoning. He couldn't hear her voice but could easily read her lips, "Come here."

His heart and his cock jumped at once. A sign. She had given him a sign. He was to come to her...

But how? How could he find her? How could he join her as she'd commanded? Absently, his hand slipped inside his robe to caress himself as he watched her standing and waiting. One of the Iron Greys joined her and they spoke, heads so close they were almost touching. Justice growled, nostrils flaring as he quickly hit the keys to rewind the scene, "No! Mine! This one is mine..."

The scene settled back to Sidle alone. Sidle standing, Sidle bending, Sidle squatting, Sidle breathing. His excitement grew with every movement, every breath...his strokes became faster, firmer. He cupped his scrotum with his left hand imagining her hands on him, her hands pleasuring him. He fought the urge to close his eyes against the intense wave of heat at the idea of those fingers around him, that mouth on him...the breath...her breath. His pleasure hit its peak just as she mouthed the words "Come here." And Justice obeyed, ejaculating in a forceful arc, covering one of the video monitors, splattering Sidle's face.

"I want to," he half panted, half whimpered. "I want to come to you...but I don't know how to find you...tell me how to find you."

The telephone began to ring.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 6:15 am – Quantico**

* * *

The sound of the closing door and deadbolt sliding into place should have been soft, ordinary sounds, but they seemed far too loud in air weighed down by unspoken fears. 

Sara tensed briefly at Grissom's hands on her shoulders, then relaxed as he helped her out of her coat. She slumped on the bed feeling defeated, watching him gently put her coat on a hanger in the closet next to his own. His hand trailed over the sleeve in a gesture so tender she could almost feel his tender caress; her eyes burned with the sting of tears.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, a little too loudly.

He turned to her with a soft but puzzled expression on his face. "Sorry? For what?"

Sara impatiently wiped the back of her hand across her face. "For what? How about for almost getting you killed? Or for being careless with my own safety when I know you worry about me?" She sucked in a trembling breath, "How about for generally being an unreasonable, disagreeable brat about this whole thing?"

"Sara," he sat down beside her and took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together; it never ceased to amaze him how well they fit, how she was his missing piece. "Sweetheart, I don't want you to leave any more than you want to go."

She relaxed against him with a sigh. "I know." They sat in silence for a few minutes soaking up each other's warmth. "Griss?"

"Hmmm?" He pressed his lips to the top of her head.

"Come with me," her voice was both hesitant and hopeful.

"Oh, Honey," he wrapped his arm around her and hugged her tightly. "I am so tempted…but, I can't...I need to be here...if I thought you needed my protection, nothing could keep me from going with you, you know that, right?" He felt her nod against him. "The best protection I can give you is to stay here and work to find Justice Lark…before he mutilates someone else or God forbid, finds you." He drew back and leaned his head down to meet her eyes. "Tell me you believe me…"

Brown eyes sad and wide, she nodded her acceptance and snuggled back against him. "How long…" she gave an ironic bark of laughter. "I know there's no way you can answer this, but I have to ask…how long will it take? To catch him?"

Grissom shrugged, helplessly. "I don't know, Honey." He felt her sag against him and hurried on. "But the financial stuff Will and Miranda found? That's huge…you know that. The money will give us a lot of clues. We can track him…where he's been might tell us where he's going." He pulled her closer and rubbed his cheek against her hair. "But, Sara…I'm not here indefinitely on a manhunt going nowhere. I'll give it two weeks and if he's not in custody…" he shrugged, "I don't know what the Crime Lab in Toston, Montana is like, but I bet they'd love to have a resident entomologist."

Her chuckle made him smile. "What? You don't think Toston has its own Crime Lab?"

Sara raised her head, "I talked with William. The population of Toston is less than 200…"

"Oh….well…not a hot bed of crime, I guess…" Grissom squeezed her hand. "Lots of bugs, though…"

Her snort was muffled by his neck. "Horse flies, anyway."

"_Tabanus linnaeus_…aren't active in winter but you'll probably find _Musca autumnalis_…the face fly…they have…"

Before he could finish, she sat up straight, lips pursed in equal parts amusement and annoyance. "I do not need a lecture on the wonders of Montana fly species, Grissom."

He got the message and switched gears. "Right…um…make sure you get some insect repellent."

The reality of her leaving hung heavily between them and conversation died. Sara melted back into his shoulder, wishing for a miracle…any excuse, however flimsy, to stay where she was.

She had no way of knowing how close he was to going with her…it was completely illogical and not the right thing to do at all, but he wanted it anyway.

He raised his hands and gently grasped her shoulders. She looked into his troubled eyes. "You know I'm going to miss you? I'm only staying because it's the best way to catch him, not because I want to be apart from you."

She nodded and gazed down at her fingers twisted together in her lap. "I know."

"Good." He kissed one eyelid, then the other. "Because I _am_ going to miss you." He kissed her right cheek, then her left, then the tip of her nose. "I miss you when you're not in the same room with me, I don't know how I'll manage with a continent between us."

She leaned her forehead against his. "You're going to be too busy tracking that maniac to miss me too much."

It was his turn to snort. "Then you really have no concept of how much I love you." He slid his arm around her back, caressing her hip with his fingers. "I fought so hard not to let you into my life and now…I can't imagine life without you in it." He leaned down and softly, delicately ran the tip of his tongue against the seam of her lips.

With a soft moan, Sara opened her mouth to him. Tongues brushed against each other in a warm, wet dance. Lips met and caressed, leaking small sighs.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and molded herself against his body. "I love you," she breathed into his ear.

"I love you, too." His lips skimmed her neck. "So much, Sara, so much." He clutched her to his chest fiercely. "And I am going to miss you so much."

She kissed along his jaw. "I'm here, now…you don't have to miss me." She pressed her lips against his again. "Right now, you have me."

"And you have me." He used his body to press her back onto the bed, "And you always will."

**_To Be Continued...Chaper 30 to follow shortly._**

**_Author's Note:_**

_The Wallace Stevens poem mentioned in this chapter is Annecdote of the Jar._


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary:** Every person is supposed to have an exact double somewhere in the world. When asked about it once, Grissom said, "Never been proved." Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N: **Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process. Special thanks to **The Ming** for support above and beyond the call this chapter.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter.

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:** My apologies for this chapter appearing late. Events in my life conspired to delay its completion._

_Dead Ringer has appeared weekly on Fridays since Thanksgiving 2006. From this point forward, the chapters will be long and very detailed as I now have to tie up all those loose ends I've been tantalizing you with for months. Because of this, I have decided to post every other Friday until the story is complete. _

_Projected post date will appear at the end of each chapter. Should there be any change in this schedule, visit my FFNET profile for a link to my LJ: I post delays and other update information ahead of time there with the tag fanfiction._

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER THIRTY**

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 6:15 am – Somewhere in Washington, DC**

* * *

Justice jabbed the speakerphone button with sticky fingers. "What!?!" 

"Hey, man…it's me," came a familiar voice.

Breathing hard, Lark barked, "Give me a minute…" He got up from the command chair and headed toward the kitchen, pausing to watch Sidle as she walked in the snow. He could almost feel her cool fingers on his cock…

The voice sounded tinny over the little speaker in the phone. "You there, man?"

"Hold your horses…" Lark called over his shoulder. "I'll be there in a minute." He grabbed a roll of paper towels off the counter, hurried to the command center and picked up the handset. "OK, I'm back…what's up?" Back in his chair he wiped his hands and dabbed at the semen stains on his robe, wondering if he could risk it in the washer.

"I don't have long…look…something's going on here…thought it might be worth something to you."

Lark's contact at FedEx had saved _Cold Fire _hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not millions, over the years. Shipments that weren't inspected too closely, others that were held back when random checks popped up on his shift…there's nothing like an informant who's disgruntled at his day job. The pay is pretty good, too.

Justice tossed the paper towel on the floor and eyed the come splashed video wall. He couldn't help thinking of a gleaming white ribbon wrapping Sidle like a present…all he had to do was unwrap it.

He held the phone between his cheek and shoulder while he cleaned off the screen. "Tell me…"

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****9:00 am**** – ****Quantico**

* * *

Sara and Grissom approached the Director in the conversation area off the lobby of their dorm. Crawford rose from his seat to greet them. "Dr. Grissom, Ms. Sidle…good morning…I hope you were able to get some rest." 

The Las Vegas CSIs flicked a glance at one another before Sara answered. "Yes, we did…thank you."

"Good…good." Jack gestured for them to sit and resumed his seat on the couch. "Since time is of the essence, I'll get right to the point. I'd like you to interview Rick Culpepper again, Dr. Grissom…both to tell him about his mother and to ask about his connection to Emily Harper."

Gil's eyes widened in surprise. "Me? The last one was a disaster…surely there's someone el…"

Jack interrupted. "There really isn't, Dr. Grissom." At the CSI's raised eyebrows he continued, "I want to keep this within the Task Force. Graham is out, William is out, Dr. Robichaud is out and frankly, Miranda Robinson is a bit too…abrupt…for this task."

Sara's brow furrowed. "I don't understand…Miranda aside…why are the others not appropriate?"

Crawford sat back and crossed his legs. "Rick Culpepper has some sort of aversion to Will and by association, William. Based on what, I do not know." He nodded toward Grissom. "The fireworks you got at your last meeting would have been a conflagration had Will been there…"

Gil inhaled and raised his chin in understanding while Sara tilted her head, puzzled. "And Mason?"

"Dr. Robichaud isn't an interviewer…he would be out of his depth almost immediately…"

Grissom asked quietly, "And you, Mr. Crawford?"

"That's the real question, isn't it, Dr. Grissom?" Jack's expression was sad. "Rick is my agent…who knows him better than I?"

When the Director failed to elaborate, Gil pressed gently. "Do you have an answer, Mr. Crawford?"

He was on the point of responding when the similarity between Grissom and Graham struck him once again. Both men were expert at zeroing in on the real topic in a conversation and laying it bare…only this was not his friend Will and he was not about to trot out his failings as a supervisor to a virtual stranger.

Sensing the tiny opening he'd found had snapped shut, Grissom did not wait for Crawford to answer. "If you think it's best, I'll interview Culpepper again, Mr. Crawford…when?"

Back in control, Jack answered smoothly, "I've arranged an interview for noon today…you can…"

"I can't go today, Mr. Crawford." Grissom's tone was flat.

Both Crawford's eyebrows shot up. Most people did not refuse the Director's requests. "Why not?"

"I'm not leaving Sara until I see her safely on whatever flight you've booked for her." His voice was firm. "After that, I'm all yours."

Sara's mouth popped open.

"Dr. Grissom…I understand your reluctance…" Jack started.

Sara cut in. "Go ahead, Griss…I can go back to the conference room and work with the others while you're gone." Even as she spoke, she knew he'd made up his mind and would not be dissuaded.

Gil shook his head, frowning. "No…I'm not leaving you…period…until I have to."

Trying to recover the conversational lead, Jack offered, "Ms. Sidle…Dr. Grissom…there's no nee…"

Grissom went on, resolute, "I can go directly from the airport…I guess Sara will be leaving from the airport…to the jail, or I can go tomorrow. Your choice."

Frustrated, Crawford held up his hands. "Please…"

Both Las Vegas CSIs shut their mouths on whatever they'd been going to say.

"Dr. Grissom…Ms. Sidle…first, I should have told you this earlier…a friend of mine from college is CEO of FedEx. He has arranged for you to use one of their passenger seats." Jack paused for emphasis. "This is very unusual…those slots are reserved for FedEx employees, but he agreed your situation is extraordinary. You'll fly from here to Memphis and then on to your destination."

Gil smiled slightly. "Clever solution…you minimize her contact with other people…"

Sara was incredulous. "You're FedExing me?"

"Not exactly," Crawford chuckled. "They won't be sticking a barcode on your forehead, if that's what you mean. It will be exactly like a commercial flight except you will be the only passenger and there's no in-flight food…which I don't think is a tremendous loss."

While Sara was digesting this news, Jack rolled on. "And second, to address your concerns, Dr. Grissom, Ms. Sidle may accompany you on your interview, if you wish."

He glanced from one to the other, then settled his gaze on Sara, ignoring the dark look on her partner's face. "In fact, I would welcome your insights, Ms. Sidle…I'd like to take advantage of your skills as long as you are here."

Sara swallowed, flattered. "Thank you, Mr. Crawford…I'm happy to help in any way I can." When she turned to Grissom, he was staring fixedly at his shoes. "Griss?"

"Very shrewd, Mr. Crawford…asking Sara directly…" The words were mild, spoken to the floor.

She'd missed something…dammit. "What do you mean?" Gil did not look up and the Director's expression was unreadable. Sara stared at him until he explained.

"I think Dr. Grissom meant that if I'd brought the offer up as a general topic for discussion, he'd have stated reservations about having you present at an interview with Rick, but since I asked you directly, he had no chance to speak before you accepted…"

"What?!?"

Jack went on, "And Dr. Grissom is, I imagine, unwilling to object now because _you_ would disagree…strongly?"

"Griss?"

Grissom raised his head. "You have transportation and security arranged for this meeting?"

"Grissom?"

Crawford nodded. "I do. There'll be a car waiting outside at 11:00." He was about to offer his hand, but put both in his pockets instead, then turned and walked out of the building.

Sara shifted to stand directly in front of her stubborn entomologist. "Talk to me."

His eyes were soft as he touched her shoulder. "Rick Culpepper is…fixated…on you, Sara. His behavior will be repulsive and lewd…I don't want that for you, but…I won't stand in your way…"

Sara studied his face. "And?"

Puzzled, he slowly shook his head. "There's no 'and'…"

"Oh yes there is…what else?"

In seconds Gil's face was hot and red and he couldn't meet her eyes. "I…um…I didn't maintain a professional distance from Culpepper last time, Sara. He goaded me and I let it get to me."

"He said vulgar things about me?"

"Yes."

"And you wanted to defend me…fiercely?"

"Yes."

Sara kissed his check. "Good…let's go upstairs and map out a strategy." She took his arm.

Grissom covered her hand with his as they walked back toward the elevator.

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****9:30 am**** – CNN News Network – ****Washington** **DC**

* * *

Lisa King paced in her producer's office, her voice shrill and demanding. "Don't tell me no, Alan. I've got the story and I'm going with it." 

"The FBI is _FedExing_ a murder target somewhere?" Alan Burrows raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Come on, Lisa…that's absurd. Besides, I thought you were all over the Dorothy Culpepper thing."

The petite reporter leaned across Burrows's desk, hands planted firmly atop transcripts and notes, exquisitely manicured blood red nails making half moon impressions in the soft paper. "Since I can't find out anything else about Mrs. Culpepper," her tone was accusatory, "I had to switch gears...I _have_ found out about this other thing and I am going live with it…it's a huge scoop, Alan…the FBI has somehow identified a potential victim in this string of killings and is spiriting her out of town?…" Her eyes glittered as she thought of the future. "We're talking Pulitzer."

Burrows checked his watch. He had two choices: argue for another hour with the ambitious King and eventually give in because she would not, or give in now. He hated to cave, but he was tired from Lisa's early morning phone calls and a demanding Susie who figured as long as they were awake, they might as well screw.

"OK, Lisa, go with it, but for God's sake…" Alan tried to catch King's eye, but she'd already spun around and whipped out of the office, "…you're welcome, you bloody bitch. I hope you fall flat on your face."

With a deep sigh, Burrows dug through his pockets. A single pill rattled around in the pill bottle he found. Grabbing his phone, he dialed a number from memory.

"Hello…this is Alan Burrows for Dr. Cabot…no, I don't want to leave a message…uh huh, well, when is he expected? I see…well, OK, I have a prescription for Levitra and I need a refill, but I'm not due for another two weeks…can you tell him and get him to call it in? All right…thanks a lot."

Burrows hung up feeling thoroughly fucked, not just by his horny little dispatcher.

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****10:00 am**** – ****Quantico**

* * *

"All right, people, listen up," Jack Crawford entered conference room 1516 in full action mode, armed with a stack of papers. He took a seat at the head of the table and continued without the usual niceties. 

"Dr. Grissom and CSI Sidle will not be joining us this morning. They are going to interview Rick Culpepper at the DC Jail…I expect them to rejoin us some time this afternoon."

A murmur went around the room at this news. Jack plunged ahead, "The kidnapping of Dorothy Culpepper and the threat to CSI Sidle have caused us to divert our attention from the Mission Hill case. I believe, thanks to William, we have Ms. Sidle's safety handled…and while it's true we have no new leads in Mrs. Culpepper's disappearance, I hope to find her and soon."

He glanced at each of his team members. "I believe we have to get back on track. The only hope we have of finding her alive is finding Justice Lark and we're only going to accomplish that by going back to the basics."

Miranda, Mason and Agent Foster nodded, while Will studied Crawford's newly energized demeanor with the ghost of a smile.

"Miranda, Will…the work you've done on Lark's finances may well break the case. I'd like you to discuss your findings in a few minutes…Dr. Robichaud, I want you to discuss the antibody titering angle you suggested…but first…" The Director passed the reports he'd brought with him around the table. "I'd like to tell you what we've learned about our victim, Jacqueline Bennett."

Jack continued as each team member took a report. "Meet Jackie Bennett, age 27, 5'8" tall, 130 lbs., dark hair and eyes…" Folders opened to the smiling picture of a pretty, dark haired young woman. "She worked Vermont Avenue in the District and had several priors for soliciting. We got this photo from her apartment."

Miranda mused. "Pretty girl…looks a lot like Sara…"

Crawford turned a page in his document and the others followed suit. "This is how you may remember Ms. Bennett…at the scene on Mission Hill Drive in Massaponax, Virginia."

Photos of the scene covered two pages, showing the body in situ and close ups of the woman's face, the message burned into her belly, and the word 'sidle' burned into her right thigh.

"Look at that…" William breathed, surprised. "The message…"

_Justice is at hand  
__I have not forgotten _

Crawford, who had flipped to another page, was about to comment when Graham spoke softly, "He _was_ at hand, wasn't he, Jack? Justice? He was watching…he wanted to see…" His gaze was unfocused even though he appeared to be riveted to the message on the charred skin. He felt himself zero in on it, his sense memory letting him smell the burning flesh, feel the bite of the frigid air. His voice had a far off, dreamlike quality. "He wanted her…before and after she was dead…he was excited by watching her laid out like that, like a sacrifice on an altar…he is as aroused by the placement and presentation as he is the sex…he knew Sara would be there, wanted to see _her_…watch _her_…fantasize about _her_…he was excited and he was there…"

Jack stared at Graham, startled, and then at the write up of the evidence found at the Burning Mill house. _Jesus._

Will shook his head slightly as if clearing his mind of the images and feelings that had assaulted him. "He likes to watch…what did they find at the house that backs up on the scene address?"

A ripple of unease whipped around the room and was gone. When Crawford didn't answer, Graham glanced around the table at his friends' faces, sensing their distress. They had what he'd come to call 'the look'…that goose-walking-over-your-grave look people got whenever his gift took over. "Sorry." He shrugged, slightly embarrassed and helpless. "It creeps me out a little, too."

"I'll get back to the adjacent property in a moment…" Crawford inclined his head slightly at the man he felt comfortable calling 'friend' again. "Turn to page 4 please…"

"William, you've already mentioned the message burned into the victim's abdomen and we know about the extra brand…the word 'sidle' burned into her right thigh…" Crawford paused when he noticed the group exchanging worried glances. He'd lost his audience when he'd mentioned Ms. Sidle's name. She wasn't here and they were concerned for her safety. "Dr. Grissom and Ms. Sidle will be accompanied to the jail by several agents…they are all aware of the danger…"

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Do you really think it's a good idea to expose her like this? Wouldn't it be better to…"

Before the Director could answer, Graham patted Miranda's arm, "He wouldn't leave her…right, Jack? Gil wouldn't leave her and you needed him to interview Culpepper before tomorrow…before she's safely on that plane."

Agent Foster frowned. "What's the rush? I don't understand."

Crawford held up his hands. "People, please…Will is correct…Dr. Grissom would not leave Ms. Sidle to go down to the jail, so she elected to accompany him."

Everyone seemed to have a comment. The one Jack heard was Graham's. _"Wish I'd been a fly on the wall for that conversation."_

Jack tried to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory. "Moving along…"

"But, you didn't answer my question, Jack," William broke in.

"That's right, I didn't." Foster recognized the finality in that remark and chose not to press the issue. Taking a deep breath, Jack went on, "At autopsy, Dr. Robichaud discovered blanching patterns on the victim's the chest, abdomen and thighs, which brought up the possibility of compression asphyxia. This would indicate the victim was not alive when impaled at the scene…a significant change in the perpetrator's M.O."

Dr. Robichaud leaned his elbows on the table. "The victim turned out not to have been asphyxiated at all, but died of a cerebral event…a stroke. It was natural causes."

Miranda chimed in, "But serials don't change their M.O.s…at least, I've never heard of it…" Her voiced trailed off as she thought about this new data.

Graham tilted his head. "And the blanching?" He paused to think then grimaced.

"Oh, no…he didn't…" Miranda glanced at Crawford who nodded once.

Foster shook his head. "What?"

The Director jumped in. "The blanching is consistent with something…a person…lying on top of the body for some time after death occurred…"

When William still looked confused, Graham explained. "He probably had sex with her corpse, Willy. She died in the middle…before he was done, but he went through all the steps anyway…"

Miranda thought out loud. "He's changing…pre- and post-mortem treatment of the last three victims have all had significant differences. Look at the Sky Landing victim. She was mutilated before she died but the victim from the Sculpture Garden one was not…well, not sexually and he didn't cut her tongue out." She counted each murder on her fingers. "And this one…her death was accidental but he 'went through the motions' anyway? I mean…what did he do…scare her to death?"

"Good point, Miranda…hold that thought, if you will. We'll discuss this new evidence once I take you through this report." Before the group could get sidetracked again Crawford forged ahead. "On page 6 are photographs of the mouse that was found impaled on a sharpened branch in nearby underbrush…since it is an albino mouse and the branch was purposefully modified, I think we can assume it was a plant. There's also a shot of the stake Lark used to impale this victim…a sign this time"

The image showed a common cardboard roadside advertisement attached to a wooden stake, the business end of which was covered in blood. The badly weathered blue sign read:

_Holy Mission Church  
ahead on right_

Graham glared at Crawford. "Where was this sign? I never saw it at the scene."

"Kids…" Jack began ruefully and referred to the report. "Two boys, Luis Rodriguez, 15, and Marco Palasi, 14, found the body. In their statement, they said they were in the house and saw the body through the vines covering the windows in the kitchen door. They went outside, thinking one of their friends was playing a joke on them…approached the body…when they got closer they realized it wasn't some movie prop but a real woman."

Crawford moistened his finger and turned the page. "In his statement, Rodriguez said he pulled the sign out of her body and tried to do CPR, but as soon as he touched her, he knew she was dead. At that time they exited the area, taking the sign with them." Jack closed the folder and rubbed the back of his neck. "The first officer on scene threw the sign in his trunk…we got it back Sunday afternoon when he went to get some flares…he'd forgotten about it."

Agent Foster asked, "Fingerprints? On the sign?"

Jack shook his head, "Nope, just the boys' and the police officer…"

Miranda studied the photographs of the scene. "You think those kids are telling the truth?"

Crawford nodded. "CSI Sidle photographed footprints at the scene…three sets are consistent in size and sole pattern of the shoes the boys and the officer were wearing. The smaller ones…the boys'…were made over parts of another, older set we believe to those of the perpetrator." Jack mumbled, not quite under his breath, "At least our boy in blue didn't screw that up with his size 13s."

Jack hurried on. "Additionally, there were some fibers caught in a bush near the driveway…the only fibers at the scene, by the way…Ms. Sidle collected those and we compared them to a small tear in an Army jacket Marco Palasi was wearing…yeah, I think they're telling the truth…about this, anyway. They didn't mention they'd gone to the house to get high, though. We found evidence of that, too." He laughed, "Good thing for them the FBI doesn't care about a couple of teenagers getting high."

William squinted at the footprint photographs. "Are these similar to the ones at Sky Landing and the Sculpture Garden? I can't tell from these color copies."

"Yes, the prints show the same odd gait…not the same shoes but the same _size_ shoes and the same relative differences in print depth."

Miranda clapped her hands happily. "So, it's Lark…he's involved in this one, too."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here…DNA analysis on the semen recovered from the victim came back the same as the others: a match to Rick Culpepper and Lark, his identical twin."

The Atlanta detective wouldn't let it go. "Didn't you say something about antibody titering? Is there a way to tell these men apart?"

"Yes there is…" Jack stood at the head of the table. "And I know you are all eager to explore new avenues for pursuing Justice Lark. If you'd just bear with me for a few more minutes, let's finish up with the findings in this case…and then we can discuss our new data and move on to Mason's proposal."

Miranda sat back in her chair somewhat mollified. Mason caught her eye and smiled.

The Director flipped a page in his report. "We have identified the tire tracks left in the Mission Hill house driveway. Thanks to Miranda and Sheriff Ames, who managed to make molds in snow, we know all four tires were Firestone model P215/70R14. We believe they were made by a van, but there's no way to know if it was the same van Lark used when he abducted Mrs. Culpepper. Still, it's one more piece of data in our arsenal."

"Now, before I turn the floor over to Mason, I want to get back to your question, Will…we did find evidence of Lark in the attic at the Burning Mill house. It's an unfinished space…just bare studs and insulation. There were what looked like handfuls of pink insulation underneath a window facing the back yard…and quite a bit of semen."

Graham paged through the report, quickly scanning photographs. He frowned. "So, he was there…watching…"

"I would say so, yes…and your thought about him being there to watch CSI Sidle is certainly possible and even more disturbing than him branding the victim with Ms. Sidle's name."

Impatient, Will flipped back and forth through the document, pages snapping. "Jack…do you have photos from the attic? There's none in here…"

When Crawford pushed a folder from his remaining pile of papers across the table, Graham stood up and grabbed it, scattering 8x10 photographs before him: the attic, violated handfuls of insulation, the damage done to the pink material that remained on the wall, and the view of the crime scene next door taken through the window.

As Will put the pictures in order, Agent Foster stood next to his father in order to see. "What is it, Dad?"

Graham ignored him and picked up the report he'd been reading, roughly paging through the shots of the crime scene. Growling with frustration, he pulled the document apart and placed images of the victim next to the ones from the attic, sweeping the rest off the table and out of sight.

Miranda got most of them in her lap. "Hey!" She tried to catch the pieces, but the mess spread out around her on the floor. "What's wrong with you?" she snapped, rolling back abruptly in her chair.

Will scrubbed both hands through his hair and rearranged the photos. He picked up a picture of the victim splayed out on the apron of the outdoor barbeque at the scene. With a touch that was almost tender, he stroked the image, mumbling. "Pristine…pure white…the perfect tablet for his message…"

His gaze was drawn to the shot from the Burning Mill attic window. An unsteady forefinger traced what was visible of the crime scene.

All eyes were on Graham as he descended into his personal purgatory. Sweat stood on his brow. His breathing had become rapid and shallow. The others could almost feel the crime scene materializing around him, blotting out the safety and sanity of the conference room. Mason crossed the room and retrieved his coat quietly, trying not to disturb the dark communion Will had conjured up while he shrugged it on against the chill in the room.

Graham sank back into his chair, pictures cradled in his hands. When he spoke his voice was as distant as his gaze. "He placed her carefully…arranged her like…like a piece of art…an offering…" He let the scene photo of the victim fall into his lap as he stared at the ones from the attic, studying the insulation, the floor, the walls, the window. "He waited…and he watched. He knew it wouldn't take long…he admired her…" His voice rose slightly, his breath quickened. "She was…his work and he watched her and remembered what it was like to be inside her, how she felt…and he got excited all over again."

Will squinted at the picture taken from the attic window. "She looked beautiful to him from his position…more beautiful than she did up close…and he watched the boys find her and how scared they were and his offering, his message was there laid out for him and he felt godlike…omnipotent, watching everyone scurry around…he would have watched and remembered…he got off on it…literally…he jacked off watching the scene, once, maybe twice before Sara even got there…"

Images that were not among those on paper filled Graham's mind. "Oh…and then she was there…he knows her name…Sidle. Knit cap pulled down over her hair, cheeks rosy with the cold…bright and alive on the stage that's been set for her…" Hollow, hoarse, Graham's voice rasped. "So close, he could see her breath hanging in little clouds around her head…"

Miranda shuddered and Crawford looked away. Willy reached out to touch this strange creature before him, but withdrew his hand uncertainly when Miranda gestured him to stop.

There was a glitter in Will's eyes as he touched the photographs.

"He's fascinated…sucking in the scene…her coat rides up when she bends over and he wonders what she feels like. How would it feel to be cradled in her arms…as good as his dreams? Better?"

The young agent had seen enough. It was one thing to see his father in this macabre fugue state but now he was talking about a colleague, a woman who had become a good friend to both of them in just a few short days. He put his arm around Graham's shoulders and shook him gently. "Dad…Dad?"

It took a few seconds for Will to disconnect from his vision. He looked around the room at the strained faces of the Task Force. His first efforts to speak sent him into a coughing fit. Miranda held a bottle of water out to him so he could clear his throat. He drank greedily.

Graham set the empty bottle on the table and reached up to clasp his son's hand, grounded by that wholesome touch. "I don't know what set him off…made him so mad that he ripped fiberglass insulation out of the wall with his bare hands, but…" He paused as he held the gaze of each member of the Task Force. "This guy has shown incredible patience and perseverance for 10 years…on his crazy mission…but that's all over now. You're right, Miranda…the game has changed and Justice Lark isn't some novice…he's honed his skills. Nothing will stop him…"

Miranda breathed. "Until…"

Will looked at her with the sad eyes of experience. "Until we kill him."

* * *

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:** My apologies for this chapter appearing late. Events in my life conspired to delay its completion._

_Dead Ringer has appeared weekly on Fridays since Thanksgiving 2006. From this point forward, the chapters will be long and very detailed as I now have to tie up all those loose ends I've been tantalizing you with for months. Because of this, I have decided to post every other Friday until the story is complete. _

_Projected post date will appear at the end of each chapter. Should there be any change in this schedule, visit my FFNET profile for a link to my LJ: I post delays and other update information ahead of time there with the tag fanfiction._

**_To Be Continued...Chapter 31 will be posted on Friday, July 27, 2007_**


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N: **Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process. Special thanks to **The Ming** for support above and beyond the call this chapter.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter. This story takes place in _CSI_ Season 7. There are references to _CSI_ Season 1, _Strip Strangler_ and _CSI_ Season 4, _After the Show_.

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:** __Projected post date will appear at the end of each chapter. Should there be any change in this schedule, visit my FFNET profile for a link to my LJ: I post delays and other update information ahead of time there with the tag fanfiction._

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE**

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 10:00 am – Quantico**

* * *

"Until we kill him." 

Jill Arthur poked her head into the doorway of conference room 1516 as silence descended along with Graham's words. She'd overheard snippets of many conversations over the years, but nothing quite so chillingly final.

The room seemed suddenly cold. It was certainly still.

Agent Foster and Miranda stood protectively close to Will Graham, who was gazing up at the Atlanta detective with sad eyes. The Director and Dr. Robichaud stared at the man, their expressions a combination of fascination and revulsion.

Crawford's assistant waited a few seconds before breaking the silence with a soft knock on the open door. "Excuse me…"

Five sets of eyes focused on her.

"_They look…relieved,"_ she thought absently before returning to her reason for interrupting the group. "Mr. Graham…there's a phone call for you. I can transfer it in here if you like."

"No…no…I'll come out there." Will's smile was over-bright. "I've been sitting too long…I need to walk around anyway."

Miss Arthur approached the Director with some messages and a fax. As Graham left the room, two people watched him go: one with concern and the other with love.

xxx

Will punched the hold button on Jill Arthur's phone, glad of the distraction. "Graham."

"Hi, Will…this is Sara…Sidle." Her words were a bit tentative.

Graham smiled. "Well, hello, Sara Sidle…what's up?"

"Mr. Crawford has asked Grissom and me to interview Rick Culpepper this afternoon…"

Unease started to pool in his gut. "I'd heard that…Jack mentioned it in our meeting a few minutes ago."

Sara tried to keep her voice even. "Gil and I would like for you to come with us…as an observer."

Though she could not see him, Will nodded. Realizing he'd given no audible response, he said. "I see."

"We've worked out a strategy, but it's liable to get…um…loud…I thought, well, both of us thought…" And there it was…Gil and Sara didn't quite agree on their strategy. "Another person…someone to watch the interrogation…would help us sort out what we get from him."

Graham closed his eyes. "If anything."

Sara's reply was a little too glib. "Oh, I'm pretty sure we'll get something…"

His stomach turned over…what they got was not likely to be useful. "Be careful what you wish for, Sara…but sure, I'll go along. When do you leave?"

"Mr. Crawford is sending a car for us at 11:00. Want to meet us in the foyer of the dorm?"

Graham rubbed the back of his neck to ease tension that was tightening those muscles. "I'll be there."

"Good. Thanks, Will."

"You're welcome…and Sara…" Should he warn her? He felt like he should tell her how nasty this might get.

"Yeah?" The relief faded suddenly from her voice. She was already guarded.

"Uh…nothing…I'll see you in a few."

As he hung up the phone, he couldn't shake the feeling this whole thing was a very bad idea.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 10:30 am – Sculpture Garden – Washington, DC**

* * *

The CNN satellite truck squatted at the curb next to the National Gallery Sculpture Garden like some rumbling insect, antennae twitching as technicians inside fine-tuned the signal. Murad Lahiri studied the image on the monitor before him. He made some minute adjustments, then spoke into the microphone of his headset. "We're ready here when you are. Denny, Chan, you guys set?" 

Twin yeses buzzed in the film editor's ear. "Lisa? Ready to go?"

Lisa King was getting a last minute once over from the makeup artist. Annoyed, she grabbed the hairbrush from the startled woman. "You always get it too poofy…here, let me do it." A few swipes of the brush were followed by the instrument being lobbed out of the scene. "Ooops, dropped it…sorry." As the young tech scrambled to retrieve the brush, King was briefly disappointed it had landed in snow and not the mud puddle she'd been aiming for. "Make sure you sterilize that when you get back to the studio."

Lahiri's voice sounded in the reporter's earpiece. "Ready, Lisa?"

"I've _been_ ready…let's go," she mumbled.

Murad took a deep breath and counted to ten. "OK, let her rip."

Chan started his familiar countdown. "OK, Lisa…in 5…4…" For the last three, he counted on his fingers, then pointed to let King know they were rolling.

"The Washington DC Metropolitan area is in the grip of a serial killer. This serene place was used as a dumpsite for the second local murder." Lisa gestured at the forlorn figures of Magdalena Abakanowicz's installation, _Girls_.

Chan zoomed to a three-quarter shot of King looking solemn.

"The FBI has assembled a Task Force to track this beast – their own agents and some of the best forensic minds in the country: Will Graham, the profiler who caught such criminals as Hannibal Lecter and Garret Jacob Hobbs was called out of retirement…and such luminaries as Dr. Mason Robichaud, Chief Medical Examiner for the state of Louisiana…Miranda Robinson, Detective in the Violent Crimes Unit for the Atlanta Police Department…Dr. Gil Grissom, famed entomologist out of Las Vegas as well as Sara Sidle, specialist in materials analysis also from the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

As King spoke, Chandler Harris framed the shot so photographs of each person could be inserted back at the studio. Then he zoomed in on her face.

"CNN has just learned that a member of the FBI Task Force has been personally targeted by the killer and will be spirited out of town today via a rather unconventional method of transport." King paused for effect. "If the FBI can't keep their own people safe, what about us? Tune in tonight for details of this story as it unfolds…part two of _We Have Not Forgotten_."

Harris's shot zoomed out to show a sad and thoughtful Lisa King gazing at the little figures of the sculpture installation. There was a ten second pause. "And we're out…" When he raised his head from the camera, he found himself speaking to her back, "Hey! You're supposed to wait until I tell you we're clear, Lisa…"

King called over her shoulder, "I'll tell _you_ when we're clear, Chandler…" She slammed into the satellite truck berating Lahiri to run the tape for her.

The techs outside looked at one another and went about getting the scene ready for another take…or ten.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 10:50 am – Quantico**

* * *

Will Graham checked his watch for the tenth time. "Excuse me, Mason…sorry to interrupt, but I need to meet Gil and Sara at the dorm." 

Mason paused in his presentation. "I wish them well…tell them, won't you?"

"Sure thing…" Graham leaned toward the Atlanta detective. "Miranda, would you take notes for me? I'll call you when I get back."

Agent Foster noted the fond squeeze his dad gave her hand before standing to leave.

Dr. Robichaud picked up his talk where he'd left off. "So, because of this specific antibody, we can easily and definitively tell Rick Culpepper's bodily fluids apart from those of Justice Lark."

The group was riveted to the elderly doctor's slides: this was the miracle they'd all been hoping for.

Will paused at the Director's chair, putting a hand on Crawford's shoulder as he whispered. "Walk me to the dorm?" No one saw the silent communication between the two men. Graham's question had been a command, not a request.

Virtually unnoticed, the two grabbed their coats and slipped out the door.

xxx

Graham and Crawford walked through the corridors of the Academy in silence. Once outside, Will confronted his old friend. "OK, what is this really about, Jack…sending Sara along with Gil to interview Culpepper?"

"He wouldn't leave her…you know that…" The Director's response was guileless.

Will stopped in the parking lot as he fished his gloves out of his pockets. "Oh, I'm not buying that crap…" Once he'd pulled them on, he held Crawford's gaze. "What's the plan? You _always_ have a plan…and you want her there for some reason."

Jack dropped his eyes and strolled on toward the dorm. "Well, it is convenient that Ms. Sidle chose to accompany Dr. Grissom on this inter…"

"God dammit, Jack…" Graham's face was strained. "I've been off the sauce for a little more than 24 hours and my nerves are fucked. Don't make me drag it out of you…_tell me!_"

The Director paused but did not turn. Instead he thrust both hands in his overcoat pockets. "I wasn't lying when I said I considered Grissom our best option for interviewing Rick Culpepper. And CSI Sidle's insights will be helpful if," he hesitated briefly, knowing full well Graham was reading him like a dime novel, "everything goes well with the interview."

Will narrowed his eyes at what the director had left unsaid. "And if it doesn't?"

Jack blushed slightly at being so thoroughly caught in his machinations. "I'm thinking Ms. Sidle might need additional prodding to get her on that plane tonight…"

Graham sighed and watched his breath drift away lazily in the crisp morning air. "And Culpepper is just the man to do it, huh?"

"He is. In his present state of mind, he'll…" Crawford search for the right word.

Will completed the thought. "Savage her."

Jack turned with a slight smile. "Not exactly how I would have put it, but apt, nonetheless."

"You are a complete bastard, you know that, Jack? A real piece of work."

Crawford's eyebrows rose at the rebuke. He walked on toward the dorm. "You are not the first, nor will you be the last to point out my moral shortcomings. If it's a normal interview, fine, great…we have what we need. If it gets…emotional…Rick may reveal more than he means to. Dr. Grissom and, hopefully, Ms. Sidle, will be that much more convinced of the need for her departure."

"Jesus, Jack!" Will's rough hand on Jack's elbow spun the man around. "Did you see what he said to Grissom in the last interview? Do you know what he's likely to say? To do?"

"Culpepper knows Sara Sidle and Dr. Grissom are involved…that's been clear from the beginning." Crawford shook off Graham's hand. "Culpepper seems to think it's just sex, nothing deeper. Obviously, it's more than that, but Rick is going to act like she is a mere commodity. Grissom, at the very least, is going to relate it to Justice Lark and that's going to make him want to get her off the East Coast as fast as transport allows."

The Director was puzzled by his friend's shocked expression…perhaps Will was naïve, but the situation was obvious. Silence spread out around the two-man stand off.

Graham's voice was calm. "You understand these are people's lives?"

Jack frowned. "Yes, I do…I understand that better than anyone. I'm not trying to cause them trouble…but I've read Sidle's jacket, Will…have you? She's headstrong and not above putting herself in danger to play a hunch. If it causes…problems…between them, well, I'm sorry, but I'm trying to save the woman's life."

"OK, stop…" Graham held up his hands. "Whatever little disaster you're thinking will happen in that interview is pure fantasy, Jack. Sara Sidle has a lot more on the ball than you give her credit for and I suspect her gifts will surprise even me before this is all over…do not make the mistake of underestimating her."

Crawford studied his old friend and wondered if this plan for Culpepper's interview was a mistake. Graham wasn't wrong very often.

Well, it was done now…no matter who was right, Sara Sidle would soon be safe on that plane, far away from Justice Lark.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 11:00 am – Somewhere in Washington, DC**

* * *

What did it mean? His FedEx contact was right…something _was_ going on over there. Good thing there were no pending shipments, still…it was odd. 

Justice stretched, realizing the morning was gone and he was hungry. He rolled his head from side to side, then raised his arms over his head and arched his back, Sidle temporarily pushed aside by thoughts of cold cuts and beer. _"Bread…I think I have bread…oh, and I have that baby Swiss…"_

Flipping off the replay of the Mission Hill scene, Lark set up the video wall to display the news. A jumble of voices filled the room and followed him into the kitchen.

An ice cold Grolsch winked invitingly at him from the back of the refrigerator. It was joined by thin sliced baby Swiss, Genoa salami, and sliced kalamata olives. A poppy seed roll was waiting in the bread box – humming happily, he pulled it apart and set to mincing some garlic and basil.

Justice had scoued the news _en masse_ for so long, he'd trained himself to pull items of interest out of the cacophony. The voice of Lisa King brought him up short during a pause in sandwich assembly as he popped the cap off his beer.

"…_Sidle, specialist in materials analysis also from the Las Vegas Crime Lab."_

The bottle nearly slipped from his hand but he managed to place it, wobbling dangerously, on the granite countertop beside the sink as he fled the kitchen. Instantly back in the command center, Justice frantically punched at buttons to silence the other screens.

"…_has been personally targeted by the killer and will be spirited out of town today via a rather unconventional method of transport." King paused for effect. "If the FBI can't keep their own people safe, what about us? Tune in tonight for details of this story as it unfolds…part two of We Have Not Forgotten."_

On-screen, Lisa King gazed tenderly at the little figures in the sculpture garden and the scene faded to black, replaced by a promo _The Situation Room_ with Wolf Blitzer.

Stunned, excited, Lark hit rewind on the playback. Lisa King backed up absurdly across the frame and a series of portraits flashed by next to her. For him, there was only one.

"…_as well as Sara Sidle, specialist in materials analysis also from the Las Vegas Crime Lab."_

Freeze frame.

Sara Sidle.

Sara.

"Thank you…thank you…I knew you'd show me how to find you…" The words were uttered like a prayer.

When he'd allowed himself enough time to gaze at The One, he listened to the promo several more times, pausing often to concentrate on Her Message.

"Unconventional transport…what does that mean?"

The earlier phone call about transportation popped into his brain and The Answer skittered across his consciousness like a live thing. The two puzzle pieces snapped together – tightly, snugly, a perfect match. "It fits. That's what's going on…"

Lark fondled himself idly, not really thinking about fucking, but as a way to stay grounded. "How do I get close to you, Sara?" He closed his eyes briefly. "Sara."

Each time he said her name, gooseflesh rose on his skin until his entire body was buzzing. As his strokes grew firmer and faster, his mind raced to keep up.

"Sara…Sara…show me, Sara…" He thought of whispering her name as he was surrounded by her willing flesh; thought of crying it out as she wrapped those long, long legs around his waist pulling him deeper inside.

He felt her hands on him and her voice in his ear, whispering a plan and words of lust and love.

"That's it! That's it! That's…"

His climax seemed to burst from his very soul, bringing with it all the details he needed to unite him with The One.

Ignoring the splatters of semen on his hands and the console, Lark grabbed the phone and dialed 69. The number on the other end rang and rang, each tone ratcheting up his anxiety. "Come on, pick up…pick up…pick up!"

Finally, an answer. "Yeah?"

Peace wrapped itself around him the way she would soon wrap herself around his waiting cock. He knew just what to do.

"I have a proposition for you…how would you like to earn a bonus?"

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 11:15 am – Route 95 North of Quantico**

* * *

Graham struggled to maintain his cheerful mood in the face of the unspoken but palpable frost between Grissom and Sara. 

He'd sensed tension between the pair the moment they'd exited the dorm. Then six burly, heavily armed FBI agents were introduced as Sara's escort. She'd snorted out an incredulous, "What? No helicopter?" and Grissom had stiffened at her sarcastically flip tone.

Will noted the other man's rigid back and stern expression, but laughed at Sara's joke as he handed her into the waiting van. He'd even tried to ease the pall with a smart remark of his own. "Oh, don't worry, they've got a chase plane warming up on Route One."

The joke fell flat.

Sara cracked a smile, but a glimpse of her lover's sour face wiped it away. She shrugged at Will, "Good to know."

Once underway they'd ridden in silence, the chill atmosphere untouched by the van's heating system. Graham tried to engage Grissom with an overview of Mason's idea about antibody titering. Normally such an innovation would have fascinated the scientist, but Gil had responded with monosyllabic comments and the occasional grunt.

Sara, on the other hand, was completely captivated. "So, despite the fact Culpepper and Lark are identical twins with identical DNA, this blood testing can tell them apart?" She shook her head. "I can't believe I've never heard of it."

Graham leaned toward her excitedly, "It's amazing science…quite a stroke of genius for Mason to have thought of a forensic use for a test that's pretty commonplace."

"So, the upshot is, we know for certain that Rick Culpepper's DNA was not in the victims?" Her voice was bright yet still she stole a quick glance at Grissom.

"Well, testing against the DNA found on all the victims will take time, but for at least the Mission Hill victim, Culpepper's DNA was not found in the victim or anywhere near the scene." He gave her a pointed look, "Keep in mind he's owned up to having sex with two of the hookers…the first two. But that DNA is not all his."

Sara thought a moment. "The blood on the snow fence?"

"Lark's." Graham grinned.

"This probably proves you and Grissom right, then…that he's not the killer," Sara said eagerly.

"That doesn't make him any less of an animal," Grissom muttered at the bleak scene unrolling outside his window.

Suddenly, Graham understood what the chill and the tension in the air was about and he had to smile. Sara Sidle, as he had predicted less than an hour ago, had indeed surprised him.

She knew what Crawford knew: Culpepper was not only attracted to her, he was likely to act on it…probably in some entirely inappropriate way. Instead of backing off, Sara had plans to turn it to her advantage and that had caught in Gil Grissom's craw.

The young CSI had finally had enough. She addressed the sulking scientist, "You remember Julie Waters?"

Gil turned his head to face her, expression unreadable. The hair on Graham's neck stood up.

"Surely you remember that Nick and I were working the original missing persons case…then we got that 911 call from Howard Del…"

Grissom exhaled quietly. "I remember, Sara."

She filled in the blanks for Will. "Our suspect, Howard Delhomme, wanted to talk to our colleague, Catherine Willows…'the pretty one'…about what happened to this missing model, Julie Waters…and he proceeded to drag us all over the desert for hours, always on the verge of remembering…just so he could hang out with Catherine."

There was regret in Grissom's eyes when he spoke. "I gave her the case…because he wanted her."

Will's eyes widened in surprise.

"And I was furious. Nick took one for the team, but I really wanted to slap her and you, too, Griss." Sara tilted her head at the memory. "I'll never forget what she said to me…"

Graham's flesh crawled…he wanted to stop her from saying the words.

"She told me that she'd seen the look in that bastard's eye and it was a look she'd learned to recognize because she'd made her living on it…and then she made this silly prediction." Sara placed her hand atop Grissom's where it rested between them on the seat. "She said, _'__as angry as that made you, when you're in my shoes, you'll do the same thing,'_ and you know what? She was right."

Gil nodded. He did not have to look at Graham to know what the man was thinking.

This wasn't right at all.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 12:00 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC**

* * *

He couldn't believe it. Mere money was all that stood between him and The One. She'd heard his prayer and was leading him directly to Her side. 

His thoughts were a jumble. Half a million dollars was a lot of money. Cost was no object, of course…nothing so trivial as money would keep him from his goal. But he didn't keep that much cash at the command center. It would take awhile to collect that kind paper…

Financial records were in a safe in the back of his bedroom closet. He'd have to transfer funds from a number of banks to get $500,000 before close of business today…big transactions would attract attention and that was the last thing he wanted right now.

There were the banks in the Caymans, and of course, the ones in Zurich…what about the time difference…

The smell that assaulted him when he opened the door made him gag. Feces, urine, fear, despair…

He backed quickly out of the room, coughing. _"I'd forgotten about her…"_

Dorothy Culpepper had no energy to beg for mercy. Parched, weakened from her struggles with the shackles on her feet, skin burning from the ammonia of her excrement, the woman mumbled prayers even as precious moisture trickled from her eyes. _"__Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus._ _Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death."_ She was aware that someone had opened the door, but ignored it…for her, now, the only real relief would come through reunion with God.

Justice leaned against the wall outside his bedroom wondering if he could clear up The Mistake and have everything ready in time for Sara's arrival.

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 32 will be posted on Friday, August 10**_


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N: **Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter. This story takes place in _CSI_ Season 7. There are references to _CSI_ Season 1, _Strip Strangler_.

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:** __Projected post date will appear at the end of each chapter. Should there be any change in this schedule, visit my FFNET profile for a link to my LJ: I post delays and other update information ahead of time there with the tag fanfiction._

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO**

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 12:05 pm – CNN News Network – Washington** **DC**

* * *

Alan Burrows ate at _The Lunch Box_ every day: egg salad on whole wheat toast, extra mustard and a can of Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray soda. It took him precisely 22 minutes to walk the block and a half to the dinette, retrieve the order he'd called in, eat it (outside if the weather was nice), and stroll back to his office. His trips were like clockwork. The only time he'd varied was in 1993 when there'd been a salmonella scare in the egg supply around DC. Grumbling that properly cooked eggs didn't make you sick, he'd grimly brought lunch from home until eggs became plentiful again. 

Lisa King walked up the hall outside Alan Burrows' office. Then she walked back down the hall. Seeing no one, she slipped through the door and closed it behind her.

_"Now, where is that book?"_ she thought as she sat in the man's chair and rifled through his desk.

It wasn't in the center drawer where it usually was or the one on the top right where she'd found it once before. Afraid that he'd finally gotten around to transferring everything to Outlook, King intensified her search. Her fingers skated over the faux crocodile cover at the bottom of the lower left drawer and a smile slid across her face. "Gotcha!"

She checked her watch: 12:05. Thank God the guard on the desk scared shitless of her: Burrows had sauntered out at twelve on the dot. She had plenty of time.

Alan was a contact hoarder. Virtually everyone he'd ever met was listed in his book. Many of the neatly penciled entries showed multiple erasures: he was an updater, too. The only time someone fell off his grid was when they died and even then they might live on if a new contact took the place of the deceased.

Lisa King took out her notepad and started copying names and phone numbers. Surely someone in Alan's book could get her inside the FedEx facility tonight around midnight. She was determined to film the whole thing if she could…what a coup that would be! _"Pulitzer, here I come…and thennnnn…Lisa King Live! Why not? That suspendered old fart has to give up the ghost sometime."_

Chuckling quietly, King replaced the book in the drawer and slunk out of Burrows' office. Once she made it back to her office, she started making calls. Alan didn't have the balls to risk annoying the FBI…fine, she had balls enough for both of them.

She was nothing if not persistent.

And like so many times before, persistence paid off.

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****12:15 pm**** – DC City Jail – ****Washington** **DC**

* * *

Commander Prince preceded the group into the waiting room at the DC Jail, gesturing toward the furniture. "If you'll have a seat, we'll bring Mr. Culpepper up for you. You'll be in Interrogation Room A…I'll let you know when you can go in." 

The room had an atmosphere of bad institutional decor gone to seed. Strips of duct tape on the couch almost contained the stuffing leaking out of the center cushion. Sara grinned as she scanned the magazines: _Glamour_, _Highlights_ and _Cat Fancy_ were not only out of date, she was fairly sure they weren't even marginally interesting to the people who spent time in this room.

Sara pushed a ropy tendril of dingy cotton back into place before taking a seat on the Day-Glo orange couch. Grissom and Graham flanked her instinctively.

Immediately, Sara popped up and moved to a straight chair. "That's it…could I have a little space, please?"

The same mix of shock and chagrin played across identical faces.

"We are not joined at the hip here…it's bad enough having to deal with Huey, Dewey and Louie over there…" She nodded at the three agents arrayed near the door who'd no doubt heard her but remained silent. "Is it really necessary for them to be right in here with me?"

Graham, Gil and Sara jumped when the ducks in question spoke as one. "Director's orders, ma'am."

Twin sets eyebrows rose over clear blue eyes. Together, they glanced back at Sara who was not amused by their stereo response. "Well, there's your answer."

"Very funny…"

Marty Prince appeared in the doorway. "He's all yours."

xxx

The little party made their way down the hall to Interrogation Room A. Huey and Dewey positioned themselves at opposite ends of the short hall. Louie stood directly outside the door.

Grissom and Graham entered the room first. Sara was grumbling as she followed them in, "I'm surprised they haven't checked Culpepper's legs to make sure one isn't prosthetic…"

Louie twisted in place to address her retreating back. "Uncle Scrooge took care of that when we got here," he half smiled, referring to one of the other three agents on her detail.

Sara paused for a second, her blush obscured by the door swinging shut.

Graham stood close to the two way mirror studying Rick Culpepper in the next room. To his surprise, the agent showed none of the wild, aggressive behavior of previous interviews. Instead, he was sitting quietly, hands folded on the table in front of him.

Grissom didn't even look in that direction, more concerned with Sara than her subject. She'd been difficult about this whole business…well, they both had…and he didn't want to start another argument now by saying the wrong thing. He moved so that his body was close by her side. "Are you ready?" he asked, running his hand lightly up and down her back.

She took a deep, cleansing breath and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She could not hide the stress in her voice. "Wish me luck."

Unlike the last time she'd asked for luck that had to do with Culpepper – the grocery store stake out on the Strip Strangler case – he didn't withhold his feelings. "Good luck, Sara."

One of the agents on Sara's detail poked his head into the observation room, "Ready when you are, ma'am"

xxx

The expression on Rick Culpepper's face when Sara Sidle entered the room was one of surprise and delight. He smiled happily as he stood to greet her. "CSI Sidle. It's a pleasure to see you."

_"Here we go…"_ she thought. Trying to ignore the two agents hulking on either side of the room, one of whom was the approximate size of Texas, and the guard stationed at the jail side door, Sara greeted her subject. "Hello, Agent Culpepper. I'm here to ask you a few more questions."

Rick remained standing until the young CSI took a seat then eased into his chair. "I have a question for you, actually. I don't know if you can answer it, but I have to ask."

Sara opened the folder in her hand. She replied as she scanned her notes. "I'll answer if I can. What's your question?"

Culpepper waited until she looked up at him. "The last time anyone from the Task Force was here, Mason Robichaud took blood from me. He said there might be a way to tell my DNA apart from my…that…" His jaw was working as he tried to stay in control, "from Justice Lark."

xxx

Graham turned to Grissom in the darkened observation room. "He's trying to play nice…because he wants out of here. Think it'll last?"

Gil shook his head and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "No."

Will turned back toward the glass. _"Me neither." _

xxx

Sara considered how much information to give the man. If the antibody titering was consistent across the old samples as it had been with the new the agent would likely be exonerated, but it was too soon to draw that conclusion. "I know there has been progress in that area…DNA samples from the old cases have been requested for comparison testing." Culpepper's stare was disconcerting but she did not look away. "The earliest we can expect to see them is tomorrow. Testing will take a few days."

Rick sensed a crack he might be able to pry open later. His mind started clicking…planning…thinking about what he'd do when he walked out of this place. He couldn't help himself…he needed to get laid and the woman before him was _exactly_ right. "Thank you, Ms. Sidle." This time his smile had a hint of the fox about it. The change was subtle and chilling.

"You're welcome…" She cleared her throat. "We need you to clear something up for us…"

Culpepper leaned forward in his seat while she was pulling through the papers in her file. Even though she was wearing a thick shirt and a bra underneath, he thought he could make out her nipples. He dropped one hand into his lap to help his erection along.

Sara pulled the family photo of the first victim from the file: a smiling dark haired girl flanked by a man and a woman with similar features. "The woman in the center is Emily Harper, our first victim."

As she held the picture out, Culpepper reached for it. Anticipating his move, Sara released it before he could touch her hand. His eyes darkened for a moment before he actually looked at the photograph. He tried to sound offhand. "It's been awhile since I've seen a case summary, but she was killed in what?...1996?...'97?"

" September 16, 1997."

Though he wasn't particularly interested, he pretended to examine the snapshot carefully before setting it on the table between them. "Pretty girl…"

"She was…they all were…" Sara kept her expression bland. "Do you recognize either of the other people in the picture?"

Rick tilted his head and turned the photo back around so he could see, shaking his head. "No, I don't."

"The man on the left is Timothy Harper, the victim's brother. The woman on the right…" She picked up the print and held it up. "…is Emily's sister…Grace…"

Confusion creased the agent's brow.

Shocked, Sara asked, "You were married to the woman, Agent Culpepper…you _do_ remember her?"

Taking the photograph from Sara's hand, Rick studied it again, this time with real interest. "That _is_ Grace…son of a bitch." His tone was that of someone mildly surprised.

Inwardly, Sara marveled at the man's arrogance: if something was not about him, it didn't happen. Her distaste leaked out with her words. "Excuse me?"

"Look, all this was a long time ago…" Rick explained. "We were married for less than a year…"

It was Sara's turn to be confused. "I don't understand…"

"I met Grace on a blind date in 1989. We dated…had some good times and some hot sex. She got pregnant and I married her. She had a miscarriage, we stopped having sex and we got divorced. All in all, just a little more complicated than getting unpinned, but it was no big deal."

Sara's stomach turned over. "I see."

Culpepper concentrated on Sara's mouth. She was wearing scarlet lipstick and he couldn't help but imagine his cock slipping between those luscious lips. Seeing that she was a bit off kilter, he smiled helpfully even as hidden fingers traced the swelling cock through his pants.

He watched as she looped a strand of hair behind her ear…it looked soft…he imagined burying his fingers in her hair as he fucked her hot mouth. Frank lust coated his words. "So what was your question?" His eyes burned; he thought about gripping her skull while he shoved his cock down her throat over and over.

"Question?" Why was she losing the thread here? Concentrate!

xxx

Graham watched Culpepper savoring Sara, barely concealed lust rising off him like heat. _"Bastard."_

Grissom's hands were knotted into fists where they rested in front of him on the glass.

xxx

Agent Culpepper lowered his voice a little, each word an invitation. "You said you needed for me to clear something up? I presume you had a question for me?"

She wasn't a rookie…he didn't really think she was going to fall for that, did he? Sara swallowed her disgust and refocused, determined to get what she wanted from Culpepper. Desire still thrummed in the air around the man. "My questions have to do with your connection to the first victim. You were married to her sister and did not point out this fact to the Task Force, Director Crawford, or anyone in law enforcement."

Rick, suddenly shaken from his lecherous reverie by the snap in her voice, tried to regroup. "I…uh…"

She stood abruptly, straightening her papers with a few taps on the table. "Agent Culpepper, if you want to assist us with this investigation, we'd be happy to have your help. If not, I'm sure it will all get sorted out in the courts and we can stop wasting time here."

The Las Vegas CSI had quite a bit more grit than she'd had six years ago…and she didn't really need anything from him. She was right, the courts could sort it out but he wasn't likely to come out ahead…a jury would hang him and his twin, just to be safe. He couldn't afford to piss away a chance to get the charges against him dropped. "Hey…don't be that way…I'm being as cooperative as I can. I didn't know Grace _had_ a sister." He didn't bat his eyelashes, but he made a stab at sincerity without guile.

"Your ex-wife was one of six children…not buying it." Sara walked toward the door to the observation room.

Her ass was small and tight, two handfuls begging for his hands to pull her onto his cock. He couldn't let her leave.

"OK! OK! I knew she had a bunch of sibs…the only one she ever talked about was Timmy." Rick stood up and started to follow. "He was killed in 1980 when Carter tried to rescue the hostages from Iran…"

Rick only made it a few steps before an agent appeared between them, a very large human shield. When Sara turned she caught Culpepper's eye. She did not like what she saw; something simmered there…something…predatory.

A burly arm wrapped itself around Culpepper's chest. "Sit down, fella…" the agent growled as he overpowered the smaller man into his seat. "Only person who can walk around in here is the investigator. You…_your_ butt is glued to the chair or you're outta here. I won't tell you again."

Culpepper's gaze remained locked on Sidle. "Whatever you say, man." A smile played on his lips. "I'll behave." He allowed himself to be held down in the chair.

Thick fingers squeezed Rick's shoulders harder than was required to keep him in place. "See that you do." Sara returned to her chair. "You all right, ma'am?"

"Yes, thank you." She spoke to the heavily built agent but her thoughts were on the man across the table. Culpepper wore this normal looking face like a skin that he could shed in an instant, letting the thing he was peer out. She caught a glimpse of it ­– later she would try to convince herself she'd been mistaken – but she saw it there, roiling beneath the surface. And Culpepper was the good one. What was Justice like? Jesus.

xxx

Grissom breathed, "What the hell was that?"

Graham's head rocked back on his neck as if he'd taken a blow to the jaw. "She's seen it…the thing inside," he whispered.

Grissom glanced at his friend then looked back into the interview room. Sara seemed fine. "What? Is she all right?"

Will was startled out of his thought. "Oh…yeah…she's fine, Gil. It's just that she's seen what I sometimes see…the beast in the man and once you do…" He shrugged. "Well, she'll have the upper hand now."

xxx

"Let's get back on track, Agent Culpepper…" Sara Sidle was all business, momentary lapse buried beneath her professional mask. "Grace discussed her brother, Timothy, with you, but none of her other siblings?"

Rick Culpepper sensed the change. He'd felt it himself a hundred times in interviews just like this one. She'd taken the reins and he would not get them back…unless… "There's no need for us to be adversaries…we're on the same team…I think we could be friends…good friends."

Sara stayed on topic. "Tell me what you know about Grace Harper's family."

"Well, like I said…" He hid his disappointment and waited for another opening. "I know there were a bunch of sibs. The oldest died young and the father killed himself. Other than that…" His gaze slid upwards, as if looking for stray memories in his head. After a pause he went on. "She wasn't close with her family."

"What _do_ you know about your wife, Agent Culpepper? Didn't you talk?"

"No…not much. Fucking was her best thing…we did that a lot." Culpepper straightened in his chair and both hands disappeared below the table top and into his pockets. He wasn't looking for gum. "Look…it was a marriage of convenience. Once she lost the baby, there was no reason to stay with her. Well, not after she cut me off."

Sara asked softly, "Sex is very important to you, isn't it?"

Culpepper was incredulous. "What kind of question is that? Of course it's important."

She went on, still quiet. "I think having sex is more important to you than the average person, Agent Culpepper."

"Oh, yeah? Well, you had your chance to learn all about that …and could again if I ever get out of here." His face flushed.

There it was. The reason she was here…the hook. She reached up to catch an errant hair behind her ear, then rolled her head back to ease tension in her neck. When she looked back at Culpepper, his eyes were glittering.

"Do you have thoughts about the murders we're investigating? You've read the summaries…" One by one, Sara pulled photos of seven crime scenes from her folder, lining them up so the Agent could see. "These pictures weren't in the original Task Force packet…"

xxx

Grissom craned to see what she was doing. "Sara? That's not the strategy we talked about…we never talk about this."

"Never talked about what?" Will asked.

"She was just supposed to ask about Emily and Grace…nothing else…what's she doing?"

Graham smiled to himself. _"That woman's just full of surprises." _

xxx

Rick Culpepper had looked at hundreds of crime scene photos; there was little or no shock value in the ones she'd placed in front of him. _"But these all look like me…and he's trying to make me,"_ she thought, hoping to push the man in the direction she wanted.

"You know, most of the victims were prostitutes…we know you'd had sex with Susan Long and Penny O'Brien." Sara tapped the two photos of recent victims with an index finger. "Any of the others look familiar?"

Culpepper glanced at the pictures and shook his head.

"How about these?" Sara handed him photographs of the victims in life.

The agent looked at the picture of Grace, Emily and Timothy Harper, glanced up at Sara and tossed it aside casually. As he flipped through the stack, she thought he probably recognized victim four: he studied it for several seconds before moving on. Rick's eyes widened at the picture of victim six. He took a deep breath and spread the remaining photos out on the table where they stared up at him like a chorus of the dead.

To his horror, faces he hadn't thought about in years swam before his eyes. He pointed to the shot of victim six. "This one…and…my God…" Sweat popped out on Culpepper's forehead.

"Maddy? Is this Maddy?" He picked up the photo of victim eight. "Maddy Chase?"

"That is Madeline Chase…did you know her?"

"She's dead? One of the victims? She was a baby…" Culpepper was far away somewhere, remembering.

"Agent Culpepper…Rick…tell me…" Sara encouraged.

At the sound of his name, that small crack of vulnerability in his public façade snapped shut. The peril he was in closed his mouth…he didn't need to connect the dots for them…not if they were looking to hang him. He glared and spat at her, "Rick is it? We're good friends now, are we?"

Sara ignored the bluster. "Tell me about Madeline Chase, Agent Culpepper."

"What's the magic word, CSI Sidle?"

"There is no magic word…you'll either tell me or you won't." The fire she'd been playing with flared and the room felt hot and airless.

"You want something from me, just like you did seven years ago…you wanted it _bad_, as I recall."

"I wanted to catch a serial murderer, Agent Culpepper."

"So you did, Ms. Sidle, so you did…and I let you participate in an FBI Op…you begged me then, as I recall."

Blood beneath her skin bloomed scarlet on her chest and climbed to the roots of her hair. Still, she did not look away.

"You came to the command center…so earnest. You took my breath, do you know that?"

Sara sat in silence, cheeks flaming, but she held his gaze.

"You had an idea…a decoy operation and it was, surprisingly, a good idea. I remember you standing at the light table tracing out your plan…" Out of sight, his cock remembered the moment perfectly. "I came up behind you and you turned, just a little…"

Her legs were trembling but she stood and gathered the notes and photos. Sara had known he might bring up the past and she thought she could handle it, but she suddenly felt just as violated as she had the first time. Right now she needed time to regroup. "This interview is over." She nodded to the guard stationed by the door; his scowl told her he knew something was wrong but didn't know what. "Please take Agent Culpepper back to his cell."

Culpepper stood and allowed the guard to handcuff him. "You were wearing this little top…and my fingers slid under it so easily, up your belly to your breasts…I said, 'what's the magic word?' and you gasped. Your nipples stiffened right up, didn't they? And you said, 'please' and I licked your neck…"

The guard started to pull an unresisting Culpepper from the room, voice rising, the bulge in his crotch obvious. "You'll never catch him without me…you know that, don't you? You need me…on this Task Force. I can give him to you…"

The door to the observation room opened and Grissom stood in the doorway. "Officer, please bring Agent Culpepper back to the table…I have a few questions for him."

Sara turned slowly, eyes questioning.

Grissom approached and took the folder out of her hands. She looked down dumbly and let go. "What are you doing?" she asked quietly.

Her lover stared over her at Culpepper who'd been released and was sitting back at the table. "I have some questions for Agent Culpepper."

She stepped into his line of sight. "Grissom, what are you doing?"

Though his expression was neutral, his eyes showed worry and hurt. "I'm not…" When he finally looked at her, she had gone from unsettled to angry. "Are you OK?"

She walked out of the room followed by her detail, words just audible as she slammed the door. "I'm fine, thank you."

xxx

Sara stalked around the small observation room mumbling to herself, fists clenched against her thighs, avoiding the two agents until they sorted themselves out and stood against the wall.

Graham watched for a full minute. "You all right?"

The fuming brunette stopped and glared at Grissom's twin. "I'm FINE!"

Will nodded, "I can see that…" He started to turn back toward the glass but stopped, asking, "Did he know Culpepper made a pass at you…seven years ago?"

Sara's whole body unknotted at once as she shook her head.

Graham's eyebrows shot up. He faced the window once again and watched Grissom seat himself across from Agent Culpepper.

xxx

"Agent Culpepper…" Grissom fumbled in the folder until he found the school picture of victim eight. "Will you tell me about Madeline Chase?"

Rick leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Good to see you, Dr. Grissom…I had a nice chat with your better half."

"You said she was just a baby…she was. Only 16 years old." Gil tilted his head studying the dark haired girl in the photograph. "This girl was thrown away like trash at Waterworks Park. She'd been working a concession stand for the summer…did you know her?"

"How stupid do you think I am?" Culpepper allowed the front legs of his chair to hit the floor with a bang.

"What do you mean?" The older man was confused.

Rick rolled his eyes. "I was Mirandized when they arrested me and slammed my ass in this hole…you know, _anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law_? Ever hear of it?"

Understanding dawned. Grissom leaned an elbow on the table, rubbing his lips and chin in thought for several moments. "Agent Culpepper, I don't believe you killed these women." Grissom indicated the folder in front of him. "Our investigation has led us away from you as a suspect. Sar…CSI Sidle was correct when she told you we've developed a way to tell DNA contributions from you and your identical twin apart. Once we receive the blood and semen samples from the old cases, you will very likely be cleared of all charges based on this testing method."

"You're letting me go?" Culpepper sounded doubtful.

Gil nodded. "I think we will be, yes."

The younger man wanted to believe the Las Vegas CSI, but he was suspicious. "How do I know this isn't a trick…maybe you're trying to connect me to the victims in order to hang me."

Grissom's voice was even. "It's not a trick, Agent Culpepper."

"That's what I would do, you know…work up some trust to get the suspect to talk…"

"I'm not you," Grissom offered quietly.

Rick shook his head, unbelieving. "No, you're not."

xxx

"No, he's not."

Will smiled and caught Sara grinning that they'd spoken in unison.

xxx

The two men sat in silence until Grissom pushed the photograph of Madeline Chase across the table once more. "Did you know her?"

Agent Culpepper shifted in his seat, body angling away from the table. He swept the photo into his hand and studied it sadly. "I knew Maddy."

Grissom let the moment stretch out.

"I saw her mother for awhile…" Rick touched the girl's face.

"And…?"

"And nothing…Millie Chase was a lot of fun. I was in Ohio… Cincinnati…at the time…I met Millie at a bar and we hit it off. She took me back to her place." He set the picture down. "Woke up the next morning to this one staring at me from the bedroom door."

Gil nodded and made a soft sound.

Culpepper gazed over the top of the older man's head, remembering. "They looked just alike, you know. Hot…very hot…but that was it…some good times with Millie, nothing more."

When Grissom inhaled sharply through his nose, Culpepper's head shot up. "Don't you start judging me, asshole…I've had a feel of your little piece of ass…don't go thinking you're better than me."

xxx

Graham whispered, "He slept with her…"

Sara searched her memory, talking almost to herself. "The autopsy didn't indicate rape…that sex was consensual…there was no trauma to indicate it was her first time." She grabbed Will's elbow. "Wait! I remember reading the Tox panel indicated she was on birth control…she must have been sexually active…"

Will nodded toward Culpepper. "The question is, with whom…"

Sara turned to stare at Grissom, puzzled. "He's so good at reading people…why isn't he seeing it?"

"Think, Sara…" Graham indicated his twin behind the glass. "Culpepper just insulted you. If it were me, I'd have snapped his neck by now…of course that's going to throw him off."

xxx

Grissom folded his hands on top of the folder in front of him. His tone was deadly. "Agent Culpepper, I am not interested in your exploits, the size of your dick, or how many notches you've got on your belt. I am interested in this little girl and any of the other victims you might have known. Clear?"

Culpepper blushed, caught up short. "Clear."

Gil picked up where he'd left off. "So, you dated Madeline's mother…for how long?"

"A few weeks, maybe a month?" Culpepper hesitated briefly, his eyes flickering over the CSI in front of him. "Maddy started coming on to me and scared me to death. I never saw her or her mother again. She left messages for awhile that I didn't return."

xxx

"He's lying…" Sara's voice brimmed with contempt.

Graham shook his head. "I can't believe he'd have been so stupid…no wonder he ran…he finally woke up and decided a piece of ass wasn't worth his career."

"If you were an FBI agent," Sara wondered aloud, "and had sex with a minor, would you EVER admit it even if the girl was dead? He can't…his career will be over..."

"Sara…his career was over the minute Crawford had him arrested. It doesn't matter what he says or does now, he's done." Will's words were quiet and sure.

"Why?"

"Because he's lost his patron. Without Crawford, the Bureau won't let him guard the door, much less put him back in his former position. He's done and he knows it…if he doesn't, he's just fooling himself."

xxx

Grissom pulled more photos from the file. "And the others…do you recognize any of the other victims?"

Rick pointed to victim six. "Katie Hughes…I saw her for while when I was assigned to the Indianapolis Office."

"Go on."

"Her father was a judge who went to school with my father…he heard I was in town and invited me to his country club for dinner. Katie showed up wearing a tiny little tennis outfit…"

"Were you intimate?"

Relieved to have questions about Maddy behind him, Culpepper relaxed and thought a moment. "Let's see…how can I put this? When I say I was 'seeing' someone, it really means we were fucking. I don't 'see' women who won't fuck."

Unfazed, Grissom made a note. "How long did that relationship last?"

"We fucked for a month or two, until Daddy figured out I wasn't going to marry her. I was transferred to Kentucky shortly thereafter."

"Do you recognize any of the other women?"

"You know, they all look familiar…I go for a certain type and these are all my type…but I can't say for sure. Maybe."

"Thank you, Agent Culpepper, you've been very helpful." Grissom gathered up the photos but made no move to leave.

"I'd say 'my pleasure,' but you're nowhere near as much fun as…"

xxx

Sara tensed. "He didn't kill those women, Will…the evidence is going to clear him there, but he has to admit he slept with Madeline Chase. The sex charge doesn't matter. It links Justice to Rick's former sex partners."

Graham smiled, "And once we have the DNA, those links become a motive."

xxx

Grissom tried to interrupt. "I do have one more thing to talk with you about."

Culpepper raised his voice a little, finishing his thought. "Sara…now that is one beautiful gal…"

"Agent Culpepper, we have been unable to reach your mother since noon on Sunday."

Rick rolled his eyes in disgust. "My mother is dead."

"Nevertheless, we have reason to believe Dorothy Culpepper was kidnapped by Justice Lark. We are doing everything we can to locate her…"

xxx

"I'm going back in…" Sara moved toward the door.

"I saw how belligerent he was before, it'll be worse this time." He caught the gaze of the agents on her detail. The big one nodded without expression. Will sighed. "You're right…he does need to admit it…fine, take Donald and Daisy with you."

The humorless detail had already fallen in behind their charge. Daisy, all 6'4", 300 pouns of him, took up the rear and turned questioningly.

Graham shrugged. "What? I ran out of ducks."

xxx

The thin veneer of arrogance crumbled for a moment: Rick Culpepper looked stricken. In seconds the mask was back, cavalier and unaffected. "Like I told you, my mother is dead."

Grissom nodded to the guard who approached the prisoner and re-cuffed him. "I thought you should know. We'll keep you apprised." The guard turned the man and led him toward the door.

"Give CSI Sidle a squeeze on the tit for me when you see her," Rick called over his shoulder. "Lovely breasts on that girl. Just lovely."

Daisy and Donald plucked Culpepper out of the surprised guard's grasp, whose hand fell to his weapon before he realized who had commandeered the prisoner. Still cuffed, the agents forced Rick back into his chair.

Gil watched the commotion, confused. "What's going on?"

Sara pounced. "Agent Culpepper has more to tell us, don't you?"

Rick looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"_You_ had sex with Madeline Chase…not just her mother."

Rick struggled briefly with his bonds before spearing Sidle with furious glare. "That's statutory rape."

Sara sat down at the table. Grissom stood shocked a few paces behind her.

"Yes it is, Agent Culpepper, and you need to admit it."

"I didn't kill that girl…or any of the others. You don't need to know I soaked my dick in Madeline Chase to know I didn't kill her."

Grissom's face froze in a scowling mask as he realized where Sara was going and that he had missed it completely.

Culpepper focused on Grissom. "Your hot little box here says sex is important to me…well, it must be pretty fucking important to you or you wouldn't have dragged your piece of tail out here, all the way across the country on the taxpayers' dime."

Gil said nothing but stood rooted in place, radiating disgust.

The guard pulled Culpepper out of his chair. "You're such a tight ass, Grissom. I bet you can't even get it up. You're afraid a bigger, better man is going to come along and really show her what she's missing hanging on to your limp dick."

Sara's anger broke. "Weenie wagging, Agent Culpepper? You have _no idea._ Believe me, you wouldn't even get an honorable mention and I _know_ what I'm talking about." She whirled and stormed out.

With Sara gone, the room fell silent. Ears reddening, Grissom looked down at the folder in his hand.

The guard dragged Culpepper from the room as the sound of Will's laughter drifted out from behind the one-way glass.

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 33 will be posted on Friday, August 24**_


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N: **Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter. This story takes place in _CSI_ Season 7. There are references to _CSI_ Season 1, _Strip Strangler_.

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:** __Projected post date will appear at the end of each chapter. Should there be any change in this schedule, visit my FFNET profile for a link to my LJ: I post delays and other update information ahead of time there with the tag fanfiction._

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE**

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 1:00 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC **

* * *

There were 10 items on his _Things To Do_ list. Justice looked at his watch…it was already one o'clock and he still hadn't made final arrangements for the money he needed. 

A half million dollars in the abstract is relatively easy to deal with: financial institutions make a series of electronic transmissions, balance sheets are adjusted and various accounting departments are satisfied within minutes.

A half million dollars in cash is something else again. In $10,000 bundles, that comes to 50 bricks and weighs in at 11 pounds. Five thousand $100 bills.

Justice Lark had accounts all over the country in dozens of different names. Setting up transfers small enough so as not to alert authorities was not the problem. The problem was getting it done in less than one business day.

Lark had been in the Washington Metropolitan area long enough to have become a _very _good customer at Burke & Herbert Bank and Trust. One of the few banks locally that had not been gobbled up by conglomerates, they were the oldest financial institution in Virginia and known for excellent service. For a client like Justice Lark (they knew him as Pierce Kestrel), the vice president himself was willing to make a personal delivery across the Potomac.

"Thank you, Mr. Thalheimer. I'll expect you at three…" Justice hung up the phone and crossed 'call Burke & Herbert' off his list.

Justice let his gaze drift around the command center. In less than 12 hours Sara would be home and they could begin…

A dreamy smile transformed his face while his right hand crept inside his robe. It was going to be wonderful…waking next to her, her naked skin pressed against him toe to soft sweet lips, sleepy eyes searching his for reassurance…"tell me you want me as much as I want you" she'd whisper, voice husky with desire…

Justice pushed the images aside, irritated with himself. "I don't have time for this right now," he muttered with one last squeeze to his crotch. That _Things To Do_ list was nagging at him – he'd only managed to cross off items one and two.

As he gathered cleaning supplies from the utility closet he debated calling Rosa, the woman who cleaned for him every other week. But he didn't want to have to come up with a story to explain the wreck his Mistake had made of the bedroom. Rosa wouldn't ask but she _would_ wonder. Besides, Justice Lark knew how to get rid of stains like urine, feces, vomit and blood better than Rosa herself or anyone on her crew.

Once he'd stripped the bed, Lark was relieved to see the mattress pad had absorbed the worst soil. There wasn't time to fit a trip to Mattress Discounters into his schedule at this point. He set to work on the bed, then moved systematically around the room ending with the bathroom.

Justice was certainly no stranger to cleaning up big messes.

He used Ajax, Murphy's Oil Soap, and Pine-Sol just like Mama taught him. He was especially fond of Pine-Sol: he'd always loved the aroma and to this day it was what clean smelled like to him. On days when he and Harry had broken in a fresh one, he'd come home and sit in the bathroom off the living room inhaling the fumes from the bottle she'd kept under the sink: it took the smell of formaldehyde and death out of his nose…

Gradually, all traces of The Mistake were removed from the room.

Justice Lark stood in the doorway of his bedroom, pleased. He checked his watch. There was just enough time to call the florist and then get over to the _Cold Fire_ office where he was meeting Jacob Thalheimer. He could take out the trash on his way…that would mark three more items off his _Things To Do_ list.

As he was about to close the bedroom door he noticed the shackles glinting where they nestled against the bedding, chains pooled on the floor and spilling out beneath the bed skirt. The chromed metal was at odds with the rest of the room; it took a moment to remember why they were there.

Frowning, he started to remove them. They reminded him of The Mistake. But there was some uncertainty about Sara. He might have to explain about her being The One and there could be a period of…adjustment… He decided to leave them, just in case.

The chains slid out of sight with a few shoves from his good foot. Once he rearranged the quilt, the shackles were invisible. Now, everything was just perfect.

He left the bedroom door open so the good clean smell could permeate his apartment.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 3:15 pm – Quantico **

* * *

By the time Grissom had calmed his anger and embarrassment enough to leave the interview room, Sara's detail had hustled her back to the van. The ducks split up for the ride back to Quantico; two in the van and four in the nondescript-yet-obviously-law-enforcement beige sedan. 

Graham, eyes twinkling, had taken one look at Gil's face and decided silence was the best course of action. Both men shrugged into their coats and donned gloves against the cold as they left the jail. The Academy vehicles sat idling at the curb, exhaust clouds billowing out behind them in a blue grey fog.

Will climbed into the van first, giving Sara a slight smile and a conspiratorial wink before taking the seat behind her. Grissom sat down heavily beside her and refused to meet her gaze. Rapidly blinking back sudden tears, Sara turned to stare out the frosted window.

The drive back to Quantico began and ended silently, with nothing but silence in between.

Once the little band had cleared the Academy front gate, it was a short trip to the dorm. Everyone piled out of the vehicles without idle talk. The ducks stood at a respectful distance from the scientists.

Sara broke the uneasy silence by speaking to Will. "I need to finish packing…" She glanced at Gil, who was staring at nothing, the fingers of one hand working at his side.

Will pulled his scarf closed around his neck. "I'm going over to the conference room. Catch up when you can…"

Grissom stepped away from Sara. "I'll walk with you."

Shocked, Sara swallowed and blinked away more tears. She caught Graham's gaze for an aching moment then turned and disappeared into the building flanked by her detail.

xxx

As soon as he'd said it, he'd known it was a mistake. He didn't want to work. He couldn't work…he was too upset. But he didn't want to follow her and her merry band of ducks into the dormitory, either. So, he'd made his excuses to Will and paced around the parking lot and the foyer and both the halls that flanked it, and finally walked up the stairs to their floor hoping the exertion would take the edge off his fury and his tongue.

A security guard was stationed at either end of the hall. As he stood outside the room he shared with Sara, Grissom wondered how loud things could get before her protectors came running to her rescue… he sincerely hoped they could resolve their problems without a forced entry or gunfire.

He was pretty sure the door would be locked since they had one key between them. He _really_ did not want to have to knock. To his surprise, the knob turned easily when he tried it.

He pushed the door open.

Shades on the windows over the bed had been pulled down and the curtains were closed, leaving the room in semidarkness. Sara was in bed lying on her side facing away from the door.

He knew she wasn't asleep but he entered quietly nonetheless. Coat and gloves stowed in the closet, he stood in the center of the room wondering what to say.

Her voice was rough from crying. "You didn't go with Will."

Grissom rubbed his mouth and chin uncomfortably. "No…I, um…changed my mind. What're you doing?"

There was a long pause before Sara spoke again. "I'm packing."

Her suitcase had been flung from its place on a desk chair into the center of the room, the contents fanned out beyond it looked remarkably like blood spatter.

Not knowing what else to do, he retrieved the suitcase and set it back on the chair. When he started on the clothes she sat up on the side of the bed. "Leave it. I'll clean it up."

He straightened with two hands full of socks and lingerie. He couldn't decide whether to drop them or put them in the suitcase, so he did neither and stood there with bra straps and knee highs dangling between his fingers.

Sara turned, folding one leg beneath herself as she faced him. "Why did you come back?"

How could he explain everything that was running through his head? Anger, hurt, embarrassment, shame…he hated this. She would ask him how he felt and he would tell her. Then she would say, "tell me what you feel, not what you think," and he just wanted to scream. He looked down at the socks and underwear in his hands. "To help you pack?"

She looked at the clothes in his hands. "I've got it covered, thanks. You can put those down now." He nodded once and stood, jaw working, where he was. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to…" Her words were barely audible.

Gil brought his hands together, forming the clothes into a rough ball. He tossed the laundry into her suitcase as he approached the bed, then sat down next to her.

The silence stretched and pressed against them, Sara's misery and Grissom's anger adding to the weighted air around them.

When the atmosphere was too heavy to bear, Sara gave a shuddering breath and said flatly, "I don't want it to be this way between us." She swiped at her cheeks with long, elegant fingers, "We only have a few hours left and I don't want to spend it upset with each other." She continued to stare straight ahead. "I know you're mad at me." She shook her head, "But, really, considering everything that's happened the last few days, don't you think you're overreacting?"

"Overreacting?" What anger he'd been able to release by walking around for the last 20 minutes slammed into his chest like a wrecking ball. Grissom shot off the bed and turned to face her. "You think I'm overreacting?" His voice was at normal volume, but his tone was steel.

"Yes, I do." Wearily, she looked up at him. "I thought you were overreacting when you interrupted my interview, I thought you were overreacting when you gave me the freeze out all the way back here and I can see you're about to overreact now."

His look was incredulous. "My God, Sara, I find out Rick Culpepper made a pass at my girlfriend and I'm not supposed to react to that!?!"

"I wasn't your girlfriend at the time," she waved dismissively.

"No, but you were my employee. You should have told me he made a pass at you." His eyes narrowed. "Unless it was more than just a pass?"

"Oh, for the love of God, Grissom! Have you gone stupid?" Her voice rose on the crest of her sudden wave of anger.

He cut the air in a frustrated gesture. "The last I heard, his hand was up your shirt caressing an oh-so-perky nipple."

Sara snorted in disgust. "He didn't finish the story…he didn't get to the part where I grabbed the wrist of the hand that was assaulting me and twisted his arm behind his back until he was flat against the table." The heat left her voice and she continued blankly. "He forgot to include the part where we made a deal: I wouldn't ruin his career by reporting him to his superiors and he would let me work the operation."

"You should have told me, Sara."

She shrugged. "I took care of it… it wasn't really any of your business."

He exhaled, loudly, squeezing his eyes shut. She could almost see him mentally counting to ten. When he opened his eyes the intensity of his gaze nearly made her flinch. "You…" he began, then paused to draw in a deep breath. "You have been wearing me down like a force of Nature for the last ten years to let you in…as your professor, as your mentor, as your employer, as your friend, as your lover. Your mantra has been 'open up, share with me, let me in.'" He shook his head, "You don't think, that…maybe at some point…oh, I don't know…at the time, you could have informed me, as _your Supervisor_, that the FBI agent in charge of my investigation was behaving inappropriately, making decisions based on sexual preference that could affect the outcome of a case?"

Open mouthed, shocked, she blinked at him.

"Never thought of that? How about when we were playing 'let's rebuild our friendship'? How about when we were covering all those unresolved issues before we began our relationship? How about after we became lovers? Or maybe while we were discussing coming here and you knew we would be seeing the man again?" His nostrils flared and his voice rose. "How about this morning when you knew you were going in there with the deliberate intention of baiting him sexually? When you knew other people would be standing there and those vile things about the woman I love came out of his filthy mouth?"

He was panting in an effort to suppress his anger and keep himself from shouting. "How about when it would have saved me from feeling blindsided and embarrassed? How about then, Sara?"

The look of realization and horror on Sara's face was partially obscured as a trembling hand covered her open mouth. "Grissom…"

"So, this whole time, when you've all but beaten full disclosure out of me…I can't help but wonder…is this one sided Sara? Am I supposed to tell you everything but you get to pick and choose? And I'm supposed to keep all your secrets, but you don't think twice about revealing _intimate_ details about me to that…animal." He shook his head sadly, "Sara, I love you, you know I do…you're the most important thing in the world to me. But I can't operate like this."

Tears were falling from her eyes in a steady stream now. "Gil, please…"

"It's not right, Sara, and it's not fair." He pushed a hand through his hair.

Things were silent again for a moment, before he slumped, spent, seemingly defeated beside her on the bed, unsure what hurt more – the feeling that she'd betrayed him or the sight of her weeping beside him.

Sara gave a watery sigh. "I'm sorry." She held up a hand when he would have said something. "No, I'm really, really sorry. I never thought about it from your point of view." She grabbed a t-shirt left over from her earlier fit of "packing" and pressed it against her eyes. "You're right…I should have told you…long before now and I should definitely have told you this morning."

Sara took in a shuddering breath. "I was so focused on…the case…how I could get him to talk, I thought if I told you, you wouldn't let me go in there." Through her tears, her voice became exceptionally earnest, "And I _had_ to go, I _had_ to question him."

He grunted softly. "Sara, this case is important…it is. But you, us, we're important, too. Aren't you the one that's always telling me work is not our life? That when all the cases are gone, we'll still have each other? Honey, this could have hurt us."

Fresh tears welled and overflowed. He looked at her blotchy face, red nose and swollen eyes and knew he would only ever love her.

On a hiccoughing sob, Sara shook her head. "It wasn't about the case…it was," she hiccoughed again. "I thought, if he could tell us…if we could find a connection, then we might be able to find Justice." The last syllable was lost on another sob.

He sighed, his anger receding. "I know you wanted to solve the case, but…"

"Not _the case_," she choked out vehemently.

He felt a flare of frustration, "Then what?"

"If we found him, then I could stay here…with you."

He studied her bowed head and shaking form. A stab of surprise and a pang of sadness washed over him. Tentatively, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and said a little prayer of gratitude when she leaned into him and spent the rest of her tears against his shoulder.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 3:45 pm – Dulles Airport – Sterling, VA **

_

* * *

__"Bastards…I hate these people…" _

FedEx gobbled up small competitor Flying Tigers like an after dinner mint in 1989. Very few people survived the merge but the man in-the-know about Sara's imminent departure was one of them. He, however, he was not a happy camper.

The Tigers had been cargo cowboys, transporting everything from hummingbirds to herds of cattle between Alaska and the Pacific Rim. True, the 'steak runs' had left everyone a stinking mess, but they'd been family…_Eau de Cow Shit_ only bothered civilians at the airports – they couldn't smell themselves anymore.

Once the pencil pushers of the cargo giant had gotten hold of Tiger routes, everything changed.

No more close-knit employees. No more light hearted flights.

FedEx was _all_ business, _all_ the time. Proper attitude was a requirement. Those who didn't play along were reprimanded or forced out. Rumor had it that certain higher ups had 'ins' all over the freight business: unhappy or disgraced FedExers couldn't find a job piloting a camel in the back end of nowhere. It was play by their rules or find another way to make a living.

The man in-the-know had been weighing his meager career options when, out of the blue, an unusual business relationship presented itself: an importer with some not-quite-legal cargo and great wads of cash to throw at any and all obstacles.

So began a happy marriage of convenience, one that allowed the former Tiger to snub his nose at FedEx.

When told about the super secret FBI OP going down at midnight, the partner had broached this new plan. He'd told some half assed story about wanting time alone with his ex-wife before she was taken into protective custody. True? Who knew and who cared? The half million dollar 'bonus' had decided him, but he would probably have done it just for laughs.

He was going to fuck over the assholes who'd made his life miserable and, best of all, he'd be around long enough to watch the fur fly. Oh yes. This plan would screw FedEx right up the ass, not to mention the FBI and that cunt from CNN.

_"The money is just gravy." _

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 4:00 pm – Quantico **

* * *

Miranda Robinson interlocked her fingers and stretched her arms toward the ceiling, rolling her head around in a circle. She grimaced at the creaks she heard coming from her neck. It had been a long day already with no end in sight. 

Once Mason had finished his presentation on anti-body titering, they'd gone at Lark's financial records hammer and tongs. The financials they were working on covered a vast network of companies, banks, hedge funds, real estate and more than likely, a plethora of aliases. Whatever he was, Justice Lark was neither careless nor stupid. Miranda had no illusions, though: unraveling all of it could take weeks.

She dropped her arms and eyed the salt and pepper curls of the man across from her. He'd rejoined her and Agent Foster in the conference room mid-afternoon; he hadn't commented on the interview with Culpepper other than asking William to contact the Cincinnati field office. He wanted someone to re-interview Madeline Chase's mother.

Then he had grabbed a stack of the financials, opened his laptop and begun sorting though Justice Lark's economic empire along with the other members of the Task Force.

"Will?"

"Hmm?" He didn't look up as he flipped over a page and clicked his mouse.

She rotated her head again. "Do you think Sara will stop in before she leaves? I'd like to say goodbye."

Graham stuck a pen into the file to hold his place and smiled at Miranda. His tone was noncommittal. "I don't know…maybe."

"In other words, no." When Will started to sputter, she held up a hand, "C'mon, Bayou Boy, you were always a lousy liar…"

Caught, his grin turned sheepish. "You are _good_, Ms. Robinson…have you thought about going into police work?"

"Oh, I don't know about that, Mr. Graham," her Southern accent thickened noticeably and she actually batted her eyes. "You think so? A little ol' gal like me?"

William, who'd been watching, leaned close to his dad and spoke in a stage whisper. "Better watch it, Dad. She beat me at Indian wrestling over lunch…you might get hurt."

Graham tilted his head and studied Miranda's face. "Nah, she wouldn't hurt me."

When Miranda felt herself blush, she pressed her hands to her cheeks and looked away. To her surprise, a hand touched hers comfortingly. She looked up to find Will's startling blue eyes regarding her softly.

Loud voices could be heard approaching down the hall: Crawford issuing orders, Jill Arthur trailing behind trying to take notes and answer her boss at the same time. The pair blew into the room and stopped at the head of the table.

"I have updates, people."

The remaining members of the Task Force gathered near him.

"Mason, good news for you. Blood and semen samples from five of the old cases will be here in the morning. Ten a.m. I want you to take charge of them and walk them through the antibody titering process."

"Yes, sir…thank you…" Mason grinned happily. "I'll need a car and a driver to take me to Fort Dietrich."

"You got it." Crawford turned to his assistant. "make a note, Jill, car and driver for Dr. Robichaud no later than 10:00 a.m. tomorrow."

Jill scribbled furiously, "Yes, sir."

"OK, Graham, I've got news for you, too." The Director's face fell a little. " Cincinnati was able to get an agent out to talk to Mildred Chase within 45 minutes of our call. Seems she was easy to find…she's been sitting on the same bar stool at the Green Wheel Tavern since the day after her daughter's funeral…"

Will knew what was coming from Jack's expression. "What did she say?"

Crawford continued, "She confirmed Sara's suspicion that Agent Culpepper had sex with her daughter."

"What else?" Graham prodded.

Jack quirked an eyebrow. "What makes you think there's something else?"

They stared at each other for a few seconds until Crawford looked away and nodded his head. "OK, you're right…there's more." Jack sucked his teeth and chewed briefly on the inside of his lower lip. "Mrs. Chase said she invited her daughter to participate in a _ménage a trois_ at Culpepper's urging. Apparently everything was wonderful until she caught them in bed alone one day when she came home from work unexpectedly. _That_ was not part of their arrangement. She threw him out."

Graham thought a moment. "When was this, Jack?"

"May of 2005. Madeline Chase was murdered in July…on the 9th."

William interjected. "And Culpepper was transferred to where… Kentucky? No wait…he came back here after that. What month?"

"July 4th…I remember him complaining about the holiday traffic when he checked in," said Crawford.

Mason's voice was eager. "Tell me we're getting biological samples from the Chase murder."

Crawford sighed, "That we are, Mason. The only ones we're not getting are from the two victims that were too decomposed for trace evidence like blood or semen to have survived."

"We'll know in 24 hours, Jack…" Robichaud rubbed his hands together.

Graham sighed. "Then all we have to do is find Justice Lark…"

Miranda completed his thought. "…and if we're lucky, Dorothy Culpepper…"

Jack sat heavily and spoke almost to himself, "If she's not already dead…"

One by one the rest of the Task Force sat down, subdued. The Director looked up, noticing new stacks of paper on the table. "So…what have you found on Lark's finances?"

The group took turns explaining their progress, emphasizing how much more work needed to be done.

"All right," he nodded. "Good work everyone." He looked around and sighed. "Give me a file and a computer." Miranda gave Jack a surprised look before handing over several file folders and a laptop. "OK, who wants to tell me what I'm looking for so I can actually be some help?" 

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 8:00 pm – CNN News Network – Washington, DC **

* * *

Chandler Harris and Denny Park waited for Lisa King in the CNN media van garage. 

Park peered into the darkened windows of number 13. "Why are we taking this old piece of shit? It's not one of the ones we usually use."

Chan set his equipment case down at the rear of the vehicle and tried the doors. "Hey, it's open…"

The feeble dome light revealed an interior littered with cigarette butts, candy wrappers, two questionably functional chairs and uplink equipment that, if it worked at all, might need to be powered by prayer.

"Holy shit!" Denny Park set two bags of audio equipment just inside the open doors. "Lisa must have really pissed off Lahiri for him to stick her with this. She's going to have a fit." Once Park clambered inside, he flipped a few switches on the console. "Well, there's power…that's a good sign…maybe it'll be OK…" He was interrupted when the chair he tried to sit in pitched him into the floor. "Shit!"

Harris climbed aboard the van to help. "You all right?"

"I guess so…Jesus…" The audio man righted the chair and pushed it at Harris. "Here you go, Chan…" he smiled as he snagged the other chair, sitting in it carefully. "Want to check this mother out so we know what we're dealing with?"

The two men spent the next twenty minutes working their magic on the mess they'd been given. In the end, they decided it might just work.

Lisa King poked her head in the door as they were congratulating themselves. "Cheering…always like to hear that when I enter a room…" She glanced around the van interior and picked up a candy wrapper. "Or a toilet…Jeez, this is worse than I thought." King dropped the trash on the garage floor.

Park and Harris turned slowly in their rickety chairs. "What did you do to get saddled with this thing, Lisa?" asked Chan.

King considered putting her heavy Prada bag into the van and thought better of it, shifting it instead to the other shoulder. "Nothing…you guys about ready? Everything set?"

Denny Park laughed. "Oh, c'mon, Lisa. Murad stuck you with Danger Van here as punishment…but why?"

King disappeared around the side of the van and opened the passenger door. "At least the upholstery up here isn't covered with filth," she muttered as she settled into her seat. She thought once again about setting down her expensive bag, looked around at the floor and decided to hold it on her lap. "Murad Lahiri isn't after me, boys. He doesn't even know about our little assignment. I took this van because it's the only one that won't be missed for several hours…" She tried to roll the window down; the crank came off in her hand. "Or ever."

Harris thought a moment. "Wait a minute…Lahiri doesn't know about this? Who's producing?"

Lisa King pulled through her bag, retrieving her Mauve Marauder lipstick. She flipped down the sun visor, pleased to find a mirror even if it was dirty. As she applied color to her lips and patted her hair, she offered, "I am."

The men exchanged a quick glance and suppressed a groan.

"Let's get a move on…" Looking back at the technicians, she raised an eyebrow imperiously, "All right, boys, who's driving?"

Chandler Harris flipped his hand up. "That would be me." He exited the rear of the van and shut the doors firmly.

Lisa cooed cheerfully. "Gentlemen, this is your Lucky Day!"

As he entered the vehicle, Harris noticed the number 13 painted to the left of the driver's side door and sighed, _"I'll bet." _

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 9:00 pm – Somewhere in Washington, DC **

* * *

Justice stood in the steaming shower enjoying the sensation of hot water flowing over his body. 

His mother had been a bug about cleanliness. Once he'd been introduced to Harry's little hobby, bathing had become an obsession, afraid the smell of chemicals and death would give him away. He still showered several times a day even in winter.

Justice was also careful about his appearance. While Honor always looked slightly wild eyed and a little frowzy in his severe black suits, Dolores Lark looked pressed and polished, even after a beating. He took after his mother.

Eyes closed, he squeezed dark amber shower gel into the palm of his hand by feel. As he worked up a lather, the scent of sandalwood filled the room. Sara would smell of lavender, he thought, soft suds slick between his fingers as he caressed his chest and belly.

When his hands drifted lower, they became her hands and his murmurs of pleasure seemed to come from outside himself. Fist tightening on his cock, he imagined Sara's body gripping him harder with every stroke, hungry pleas for more urging him on. Pearly ejaculate sprayed across the ivory tiles of the shower stall before being rinsed down the drain mixed with foam.

xxx

Justice had been lucky enough to find a second hand uniform late that day after his visit with Mr. Thalheimer. He didn't care about the expense, but brand new clothes attracted attention and he was counting on being invisible tonight.

"Not bad," he grinned as he turned before the full length mirror. When he added a moustache and glasses, he laughed out loud. "I look like Joe Nobody…perfect." He was always delighted when a particular get up worked.

Satisfied with his disguise, he went to check the bedroom one last time. Vase after vase of sweetheart roses and baby's breath were perched on every flat surface. Justice thought Sara would like the budding flowers: he imagined her blushing skin would match the pink blooms as they opened.

The bed was covered by a well worn hand-pieced blue quilt. He had fond memories of snuggling in it as a child. Mama called it her honeymoon quilt because Grandma Redgrave had given it to her and Papa as a wedding gift…he hoped Sara would be pleased.

>xxx

Justice punched in a number, tapping his fingers on the command console until his party picked up.

"Yeah."

"Is everything set?"

"Yes, sir…all the pieces are in place."

"Good…I'm getting ready to leave…I'll call again from the toll road when I'm almost there."

"I'll be waiting."

Lark stood, pulled on a FedEx jacket and cap, and left the apartment to meet his destiny.

**Monday, January 8, 2007 – 10:00 pm – Quantico **

* * *

As the afternoon passed, the room slid further into darkness. An alarm clock on Grissom's side of the bed bathed them in cool blue light where they lay in one another's arms. 

Her crying had subsided to the occasional sniffle and the hiccoughing had finally stopped. She continued to repeat, "I'm sorry…I'm so, so sorry."

He would answer, "Shhh, it's OK…it's all right," soothing her by rubbing gentle circles on her back and placing tender kisses on her tear-soaked cheeks.

Sara's phone had interrupted them twice: the first time it had been Daisy confirming her departure time and the second, Graham checking in to see how she was doing.

Save for those few minutes, the pair had lain face to face for hours, talking and crying, laughing and touching, trying to ignore the relentless sense of time slipping through their fingers.

xxx

"Are you hungry?" he'd asked.

"No…I'm good."

He brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. "There won't be anything on the plane…do you want to get something?"

She smiled, "I'll be fine. I have gum."

When he frowned, she'd kissed his nose and eyebrows until he let it go.

xxx

"Call me when you get to Memphis," he instructed.

"You won't have a phone…they'll take yours as soon as I leave."

"I'll stay in the conference room…use that number. I want to know when they think you'll get to William's ranch"

Sara arched an eyebrow. "You can't sleep in there…your neck will be in knots."

"Believe me, it'll be better than trying to sleep in our bed."

Eyes lowered, she rubbed his chest softly though his shirt. "I don't want to wake you."

Grissom pulled her close and said softly in her ear, "Sara…call me, OK? I'll be awake."

xxx

"I don't want to go," she said tearfully.

His heart broke to hear the sadness in her voice. "I don't want you to go, honey."

"Can't we just go back to Las Vegas?"

"No, we can't, sweetheart."

"Why?"

"You know why." He hated having to remind her.

"Then let's go somewhere else…you said you wanted to go back to the Amazon one more time…"

"Sara…"

"He couldn't find me there…" Her voice was almost desperate.

Grissom kissed her trembling lips tenderly and caressed her cheek. "I will come after you in two weeks…no matter what. Fourteen days…"

xxx

Sara sat up abruptly in bed, furious. "Damn him…damn Justice Lark."

Grissom pulled her into his arms and rocked her gently against his body until the fight left her. "I couldn't agree more."

xxx

A soft knock sounded at the door, followed by a thick male voice. "Ms. Sidle? Dr. Grissom?"

After a moment or two, Grissom opened the door. "Yes?"

Daisy peered past Grissom into the room where Sara sat huddled stiffly on the side of the bed. When she looked up, he spoke to her softly, "It's time."

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 34 will be posted on Friday, September 7**_


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N: **Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter. This story takes place in _CSI_ Season 7. There are references to _CSI_ Season 1, _Strip Strangler_.

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:** __Projected post date will appear at the end of each chapter. Should there be any change in this schedule, visit my FFNET profile for a link to my LJ: I post delays and other update information ahead of time there with the tag fanfiction._

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR**

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****10:00 pm**** – ****Quantico**

* * *

It was one of those crystalline winter nights in Northern Virginia. No moon, no clouds, no smog. The stars danced in the crisp, cold sky like snowflakes on fire. Sara's security detail waited near the vehicles that would take her to the airport. Next to them stood all the other members of the Task Force, come to say goodbye. 

Graham fell in step beside Sara. "How are you doing?" He glanced at Grissom who nodded slightly.

Sara tried to joke. "I am considering mutiny…want to join me?" She gestured at her Ducks.

Will choked off a laugh, whispering, "I think you're out numbered."

"I think you're right…but we could go down in a blaze of glory…we'd be the stuff of legend." Her tone was genuinely light this time.

Gil and Graham spoke on top of one another. "Being a legend is highly overrated."

When they gave each other identical Stan Laurel 'sorry Ollie' faces, Sara couldn't help herself. She laughed out loud.

Miranda approached and pushed in between Graham and Sara. "I just couldn't let you go without saying goodbye." The two women allowed themselves a long fond hug. "Take care of yourself, honey."

As she was backing away, she put a paper bag in Sara's hand. "PowerBars…from the machine outside the conference room." Miranda laughed, "If I know you, you'll try to survive on gum or something…they're probably stale, but they'll work in a pinch."

Grissom rubbed Sara on the back, finding the whole exchange funny for some reason. Sara colored slightly, stuffing the gift in her carryon. "Thank you, Miranda. That was thoughtful of you and you're right, I was counting on my Dentyne to keep me going."

Agent Foster stepped forward and offered his hand. "It's been a pleasure, Sara. Let us know how things are on the ranch…" He leaned closer and said quietly, "I called out there and told the cook you're a vegetarian…I'm sad to report he said you could graze along with the horses…better hold on to those PowerBars."

Sara's grin was brilliant. "I'll do that, William. Thanks for everything."

Mason Robichaud was holding his wool fedora close to his chest, taking her in with gentle eyes. "Miss Sara, it's been a delight…we're going to catch that bast…er, that man, Lark…soon, very soon."

Before he could stop her, she pulled him into a one armed hug. He managed to move his hat just in time. "Thank you, Mason. I'm sure you'll get him…your antibody titering idea is brilliant."

When she pulled away, Mason cleared his throat several times and made a show of adjusting his hat so no one would notice that he'd teared up.

Crawford stepped forward from the back of the group where he had been waiting a little impatiently with the Ducks. "All right, gentlemen…the plane leaves at midnight sharp. Let's get Ms. Sidle there on time, shall we?"

Farewells cut short, Sara entered the van followed by Grissom. Daisy took Sara's bag, stowed it in the rear and got into the front passenger seat. Donald manned the wheel. Uncle Scrooge, Huey, Dewey and Louie climbed into the unmarked sedan that would be leading the way.

Crawford was just about to shut the cargo door when Graham stepped forward and trundled inside the van. "Excuse me, Jack…one more rider…"

Surprised, Gil twisted around as Graham took the rear seat. "What are you doing?"

Will struggled with the strap at his waist. "I am fastening my seat belt."

Irritated, Grissom frowned until Sara touched his shoulder. "I asked him to come with us, Griss."

He frowned at her, puzzled.

"I don't want you to ride back from the airport alone."

He stared at her for a few seconds, then glanced quickly at Graham. "Oh…OK."

Crawford, who had watched the exchange, saw they were finished. He shut the side door firmly and banged on it twice. "I'll be on my radio as soon as I get back inside. Let's roll."

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****10:10 pm**** – CNN News Network – ****Washington** **DC**

* * *

Alan Burrows was busy shuffling papers around on his desk. Even he didn't know how many reports he had to file every day, but the only way he'd found to get them out of his hair was to stay late and do them when the office was quiet. 

Murad Lahiri stuck his head in the door. "You almost done?"

Burrows tossed his pen on top of a tall stack of paper. "Yep…I am out of here." It took a moment before he realized the film editor was not usually around so late. "What are you still doing here?"

Lahiri held up the clipboard he was holding. "Chasing a lost van…whose idea was it to stick me with the vehicle inventory?"

Alan gave the man a lopsided grin. "You left a meeting early, as I recall…you got nominated."

Mouth open in surprise, Murad barked out a laugh. "I had the flu! I went to the john to throw up!"

"I'm a bastard…besides, I had that frickin' inventory for a year." Burrows shrugged and quirked an eyebrow as he shut down his computer.

"All right, next time I'll throw up all over you…" Lahiri studied the list in his hand. "Hey, you didn't assign number 13 to anybody and forget to log it in, did you?"

The producer turned off the light on his desk and grabbed his coat. "I don't have anyone in the field right now."

"Shit…I can't believe someone stole that fucker…we'd have to pay someone to haul it away."

Burrows buttoned his coat. "Are the keys on the board?"

"No, and that's what's weird…someone must have taken it on purpose. Should I report it stolen?" Lahiri asked.

Jamming his hat on his head, Alan Burrows patted his friend on the arm. "Sounds like a plan…well, I really am out of here. See you in the morning, Murad."

"Sure, Alan," came the distracted reply.

As Burrows walked down the hall toward the rest of his evening, Murad Lahiri turned back to his office, knowing whatever he did he was going to be stuck at work for hours.

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****10:15 pm**** – Route 234 West – ****Dumfries,** **Virginia**

* * *

It was approximately 40 miles from the FBI Academy in Quantico to Dulles International Airport, much of it over two and four lane local roads. Unlike the Interstate route between Dulles and the nation's capital, this one was populated only by the occasional strip mall and hundreds of new home development signs flocked around intersections like colorful silent birds. Once the little group had moved beyond the lights and traffic of Quantico proper, their trip was mostly in the dark. 

The atmosphere inside the van was somber. Grissom held Sara's hand, rubbing his thumb over her skin as if trying to memorize it.

Sara was filled with a sense of dread. No matter what her head said, her gut was telling her that leaving was a mistake. The closer she came to actual departure, the more she felt as if her body was filling with lead shot. She was sure by the time they reached the airport she'd be completely unable to move.

Graham was having a hard time breathing. The air was chock full of unexpressed feeling and all of it seemed to have landed on his chest. He leaned forward and spoke to the agents up front. "This seems like a pretty rural road for the Washington area…"

Daisy turned in his seat. "Yes, sir. Bedroom developments keep popping up, but it's still pretty empty."

Will took a deep breath and squinted out of the windows. Their vehicles didn't cast enough light to illuminate anything but the road in front of them. "I thought the suburbs were more built up than this…isn't this horse country?"

Donald chipped in. "No, Sir. You're thinking about places like Middleburg and Front Royal, which are to the west and north. Lots of money out there…here, it's always been lower income families and light industrial businesses, until the developers dropped places like Blackpool Mews into the mix. The locals wouldn't know what 'mews' were if they bit them on the ass."

Graham smiled. He had neighbors like that in Florida. "I guess I wasn't expecting quite so many trees…I mean, it's a forest out here."

Daisy inclined his head toward the driver's side of the van. "Well, we are passing Prince William Forest Park on the left here…"

As the words left his mouth, a white van barreled out of the trees and screeched to a stop across both lanes of traffic.

Grissom only had time to register 'white van' and remember Justice Lark had used one when he kidnapped Dorothy Culpepper. "Jesus!"

Instantly, Daisy materialized in front of Sara from the gap between the front seats, pushing Grissom toward the side cargo door and pulling her to the floor, covering her with his body.

The sound of car doors opening and masculine shouting sounded a few yards away. "Out of the car! Out of the car!"

The van radio went crazy. "Incident on 234 West. Blockade…white van…back up! Back up! Back up!"

Bodies could be heard bumping against the white van in the road, then a loud screech when a door opened.

A high pitched voice pleaded. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…please, don't tell my parents…my dad'll kill me!"

Seconds passed in complete silence, broken by a staticky voice on the radio. "Stand down! Stand down!"

Daisy was suddenly very heavy on Sara's back. He eased himself off of her and helped her up. Grissom managed to get the cargo door open so Daisy could exit. As the big man helped Sara out of the van, Gil by stood awkwardly checking to make sure she was OK.

Donald reholstered his weapon and slid down from the driver's side of the van. "You folks all right?"

Graham climbed out of the back seat rubbing his elbow. "What the Hell was that?"

Hughie strolled over to the van from the knot of agents surrounding the driver of the barricade vehicle. "Teenager had Daddy's van off in the woods with her friends…doesn't know how to drive a stick. She gunned it to get it into first gear and stalled it out on the road."

Sara ran both hands through her hair. "You scared me to death." She turned to Daisy, "And you almost killed me."

Daisy ducked his head. "Sorry, ma'am."

Pale, Sara turned to Grissom. "Look at that…my hands are shaking…"

Gil put his arms around her and stood awkwardly, thanking God it hadn't been Justice Lark.

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****10:10 pm**** – ****Quantico**

* * *

The door to the Director's office was half closed, warm yellow light from a desk lamp spilled into the darkened hallway. The only sound came from the air handlers kicking on periodically to circulate heated air. 

Until static exploded out of a police radio, followed by frantic voices, _"Incident on 234 West. Blockade…white van…back up! Back up! Back up!"_

Jack Crawford leapt to his feet and listened in horror as events on route 234 west of Dumfries unfolded. "Christ! I should have gone with them…I should have gone with them…Dammit!"

_"Stand down. Stand down," _spit out of the tiny speaker in a welter of white noise.

Jill Arthur had heard the commotion all the way down the hall in her office and come running as fast as a roundish, forty-something personal assistant could run. She skidded to a breathless halt just inside the door. By then, it was all over. "What is it? Are you all right?"

Crawford had dropped limply into the chair adjacent to his desk, radio perched precariously in his lap. The color was just coming back into his face. "Some joy-riding teenager just gave me a heart attack."

When he looked up, Jill was handing him a cup of water from the credenza behind him. "Drink this, Sir…is everything OK?" Here eyes were full of concern.

He took the cup and drank. "Thank you…I'm fine…"

Eventually Jack moved back to his desk dropping the empty cup in his waste basket as he went by. He placed the now silent radio on the desk within easy reach.

Ms. Arthur shifted from one foot to another until Crawford noticed she was still there. "You have something for me?"

She glanced uncomfortably at the bank of monitors across from Crawford's desk. They were all dark. "Have you watched any news this evening, Sir?"

He followed her gaze then looked back at her. "No, why?"

"Well, that awful woman…Lisa King…had that show on again…about the…"

Jack interrupted. "_We Have Not Forgotten_."

"Yes Sir, that's the one….well, um…I had it on and at the end she said something about how the FBI is spiriting one of its investigators out of town…"

"WHAT!?!"

"Yes, Sir…tonight, she said…"

"Fuck!" Crawford's fists came down on the desk with such force, it spun him around. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"I thought you should know, Mr. Crawford."

"Any details? Time? How we're doing it?"

"No, nothing like that…she just said that a member of the Task Force team has been targeted by the person who's been killing those women."

"Terrific…did she give chapter and verse?

"What do you mean?"

"Names?"

"I'm afraid so, sir…"

"FUCK! When was this on, Jill?"

"Oh, it just went off, Sir, and the bits about the Task Force were right at the end…I was on my way down here to tell you when I heard all the noise."

Crawford ran a knuckle over frowning lips, considering his options. Seconds ticked by. Suddenly he inhaled and started rooting around in his file drawer. "Jill, I want you to get Kirby Geller on the phone for me. He's chief of the CNN Washington Bureau."

Jill stood nodding, waiting for her boss to say more.

"Go. I'll be waiting."

The woman scurried out of the office leaving Jack alone with the folder he'd pulled out of his desk. Across the top in bold red letters were the words LISA KING.

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****11:00 pm**** – ****Washington** **Dulles** **International** **Airport**

* * *

"My ass is killing me…" Chandler Harris tried to stand inside the decrepit CNN media van and promptly banged his head on the roof. He rubbed his rear with one hand and the back of his head with the other. 

Denny Park tried not to laugh but had no success suppressing a smirk. "When is this supposed to go down anyway?"

Lisa King turned from her spot in the front seat, gesturing with a stack of emails she'd pulled from her purse. "The plane leaves at midnight…" was her distracted response while she tried to read through the papers in her hand by the feeble interior light. "My instructions say to park here and approach on foot… we'll move as soon as the convoy gets here."

Concern colored Park's voice. "CONVOY? What convoy? Chan's information about FedEx transporting someone for the Fibbies didn't say anything about any _convoy_."

The reporter barely looked up from her reading and then it was only to wave her hand dismissively. "Isn't it fortunate that I have more detailed information…"

Chan sat back down in his chair. "Well, a convoy sounds disturbingly military to me, Lisa, and you know about my allergy to lead."

King did not respond. Denny exchanged a look with Harris. "LISA!"

Exasperated, Lisa King let her hands fall in her lap. "What!?!"

Park pointed to himself and Chan. "We have some legitimate concerns here…convoy…military…flying bullets…?"

The stack of emails disappeared into the reporter's big purse. "The 'convoy' will be a car and a van, so don't get your panties in a twist. Besides, who's going to shoot at you?" Before either man could feel comforted, she went on, "It's me they'll want to shut up. You guys keep focused on me…and if anything happens, make sure you record it all."

Harris was stunned. "Damn, Lisa…I've never seen you so…committed and well, brave."

"Thank you, Chan. I am dedicated and besides, the Kevlar vest I've got on should stop any stray bullets they fire at _me_."

The raised voices coming from the van fell silent as the convoy they were waiting for crunched by slowly, coming to a stop 100 yards away near a sign marked OFFICE.

Lisa opened her door quietly and whispered, "We're on fellas…"

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****11:10 pm**** – FedEx Facility at ****Dulles** **Airport**

* * *

Despite the excitement on the road, the convoy passed out of the forest without further incident. They rolled through a few more bedroom communities then back into civilization. After a short jaunt on the Dulles Toll Road, the airport finally spread out its many feeder road tentacles to meet them. 

In contrast to the chill darkness of Quantico and Dumfries, mercury vapor lamps lit everything for miles around the airport, coating it all with an unnatural orange glow.

Cargo traffic does not go through the graceful main terminal at Dulles. What is in reality a separate airport serves the freight carriers: they operate out of a warren of long low buildings resembling great grey Legos several miles to the west of DIA.

When the van rolled to a stop at the FedEx facility, Daisy turned in his seat to speak to Sara. "Ms. Sidle, the other agents are going to go inside and make sure the area is secure. Once they return, we will escort you to a waiting room inside the building and stay with you until your flight leaves. All right?"

Sara nodded numbly. No matter how hard she'd wished it wouldn't happen, she'd arrived at the airport. She wanted to cry or scream or run away, but she couldn't. She had to go. Silently, she cursed Justice Lark and Jack Crawford in equal measure.

Grissom cleared his throat. "Are you ready?"

Sara shook her head as she stared at her shoes.

Gil pulled her close to his side and held her hand more tightly. When she leaned into him he pressed a kiss to her temple. "I know."

The pair closed their eyes, savoring the feel of each other…hanging on to every second they had left.

Behind them, Graham cleared his voice quietly. "We have company…"

Outside the side cargo door milled Sara's Ducks and someone in a FedEx uniform, unsuccessfully trying to peer into the tinted window.

Donald exited the van, leaving his partner to give orders to their charges. "We're going to exit the van now, Ms. Sidle." Daisy noted Gil reaching for the door handle as he opened his own passenger door. "Please wait for us to open the door, Dr. Grissom…it won't be long."

Six agents conferred briefly with one another then arranged themselves to accompany Sara into the building. Daisy pulled open the cargo door and gestured for the occupants to leave. "Please…if you could stand right here until we're ready to move…"

Grissom, Sara and Graham stepped onto the parking lot waiting for instructions. The man in the FedEx gear stepped forward offering his hand and an eager smile. "I'm Ed Cross, Chief of Security. We've already run several sweeps of the facility…" He eyed the Ducks speculatively, "With your additional security, I am sure we'll get you on your way without a hitch."

Neither Grissom, Sara nor Graham returned the man's offer of a handshake. He was chicken chested, about 5'7" tall and trying too hard to achieve that Clint Eastwood craggy middle aged lawman look. Even his polar suit jacket didn't bulk him up. The wide leather belt sagging at his waist weighed down by a nickel plated cannon only made him look silly. Privately, Graham thought he came off like a slightly more rugged version of Barney Fife, but he kept that to himself.

Daisy was in silent communication with the rest of the Ducks over Cross's head. Everything was set. "We're ready to escort you inside now, Ms. Sidle. You have a safe trip."

Chief Cross backed up hastily as the Ducks closed ranks around their charge, moving her forward as they moved. Sara turned to her biggest escort who had taken up a position next to Graham by the van. "Aren't you coming…um…Daisy?…I'm sorry, I don't know your name." When she stopped, the other Ducks stopped, too.

"No, Ma'am…I'm detailed to the perimeter…and Daisy is fine…" The sparkle in his eyes let her know he was sincere about the nickname.

Sara felt Grissom's hand on her shoulder. Turning reluctantly, she gave Daisy the full wattage Sidle smile. "Well, um…thanks for everything…" She gave Will a final grin and was gone.

Graham leaned against the van with his hands deep in his pockets as he watched the Ducks lead Sara away. Grissom took up the rear accompanied by Chief Cross, who apparently had a lot to say about the whole situation and was determined to say it to someone. Within seconds, everyone had hustled inside.

Daisy arranged himself at parade rest next to the van so he could continually scan the area. He glanced over at Graham. "You're not going in to say goodbye?"

Will straightened up and strolled over to stand next the bigger man. At 5'10" and 180 pounds, Graham was not a small man, but Daisy towered over him and had him by a good six inches horizontally as well as vertically. "If there was a little fog, I'd think we'd been sucked into some _Casablanca_ alternate universe…you know, 'Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'"

Daisy glanced down and kept a completely straight face. "Not Louie…Daisy," he rumbled.

Graham chuckled, "OK, _Daisy_…by the way, what's your real name? I can't keep calling you that. Eventually you'll have to break me in half."

The agent quirked an eyebrow. "Promise you won't laugh."

Graham snorted, "I've been calling you Daisy for going on 12 hours and haven't laughed. Can't be any worse than that, right?"

Daisy's other eyebrow went up.

Intrigued, Graham crossed his heart and held up three fingers in the Boy Scout oath. "I promise."

"Isaac…I go by Ike."

Puzzled, Graham's brow furrowed. "Okay…"

"Gerber, Ike Gerber…" The big man let it hang there, knowing what was coming.

"Ike Gerber…" Graham was about to say 'so what' when it hit him. "Gerber…you mean like…the daisy?"

Grimly, Daisy nodded.

Will Graham laughed so hard he began to choke. Ever helpful, Daisy pounded him on the back, perhaps just a little too hard.

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****11:12 pm**** – FedEx Facility at ****Dulles** **Airport**** – Crew Lounge **

* * *

As the tight group protecting Sara approached a door marked Crew Lounge, Ed Cross speed walked ahead to unlock the door with his proximity badge. With a too wide grin, he gestured his guests inside. 

The room was surprisingly homey. Functional but comfortable easy chairs and couches were placed around the room in casual conversation groups. The smell of fresh coffee drifted over from a large beverage preparation area featuring a selection of teas, sweeteners and flavorings. Next to that, a glass fronted refrigerator featured sodas, juice and bottled water.

Three men who were already in the room stood when Sara entered. Ed Cross waved them over.

Donald gave significant glances to the rest of the agents who distributed themselves around the walls. Grissom moved protectively close to Sara as the security chief launched into introductions.

"Welcome to FedEx. Again, I'm Ed Cross, head of security."

This time when he offered his hand the greeting was returned. "Gil Grissom and this is Sara Sidle." Sara nodded once and continued to look around the room.

Cross hustled the three men closer so that he could introduce them. The overall effect was of a knot of people huddled together in the center of a big room. Everyone's personal space was violated. Sara twisted away and inspected a basket of tea.

As Chief Cross herded everyone toward the young CSI, Grissom put out an arm to get the man's attention before he managed to corner Sara again. "I'm sure you'd like to make introductions…"

The other three men angled themselves out of Cross's grasp with some relief.

"Oh, sure…um…I want to introduce Ms. Sidle to the flight crew for her trip…"

Grissom interrupted. "I think Ms. Sidle is feeling a bit overwhelmed…if we could just give her a little space…"

Disappointed that his plans weren't going quite the way he wanted, they spun completely out of control when the flight crew took care of the introductions themselves.

"I'm George Jackson, Mr. Grissom. I'll be piloting this evening." The tall, fiftyish ebony-skinned man extended his hand.

The two men shook hands briefly before the pilot continued. "My co-pilot is Manly West…"

West was also middle aged, a bit thick around the middle with thinning gray hair. He and Grissom shook hands as the pilot introduced the last man. "And this is or navigator, Milt Marburg…"

Marburg was in his forties, a slender, pale-skinned and pale-eyed man with white blond hair and a compact build. He gave Grissom's hand a shake and quickly disengaged, putting both hands in his pockets.

Grissom glanced at Sara, who seemed unusually interested in a basket of Sweet'n'Low. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Gil Grissom. I appreciate your making room on your flight for Ms. Sidle. Under the circumstances…"

The flight crew looked at one another. It was odd enough to have a civilian passenger, but this was quite a bit more peculiar than the story they'd been told led them to believe. Obviously the woman was stressed and the man was worried. And then there were the security guards. Curiosity swelled until Chief Cross broke back into the group. "Now that introductions are taken care of, let's discuss how this will all go down…"

Jackson, West and Marburg pointedly ignored the little man and returned to their seats.

Grissom frowned. "Go down?"

Cross felt his grand moment slipping away; he stared hatefully at the flight crew. Trying to save face, he muttered, "Right…well…we'll go over that later," and abruptly left the room.

The Ducks coughed lightly or perhaps they had laughed. Grissom shrugged and went to Sara who was now inspecting a basket of flavored creamers.

Captain Jackson called to them, "Feel free to make yourself some coffee or something…"

Inspection of the beverage table complete, Sara slumped onto a vacant couch and Grissom sat down heavily beside her. He reached for her hand, matching up fingers and spaces between with slow deliberation, and slid his fingers into hers, fitting their hands together like two perfectly matched puzzle pieces.

"Sara?" His voice was soft in the quiet room.

"Hmm?" She was chewing on the corner of her lip, already miles away from him.

"I love you."

She reeled herself in and comforted herself in his warm blue eyes. "This is really going to happen, isn't it?"

Grissom squeezed her hand. "Yes, it is."

Resigned, she leaned into him. "I love you, too."

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****11:15 pm**** – FedEx Facility at ****Dulles** **Airport**

* * *

Lisa King and her crew crossed the 100 yards from their van to the Academy convoy hidden in the shadows of a long line of FedEx trucks just in time to see Sara and the Ducks disappear inside the building. 

The reporter was livid. "SHIT!" she whispered between gasps for breath. "Shit…shit…shit…shit…SHIT!"

Panting from their stealthy jog, Denny Park stood bent over, hands braced on his knees, and equipment dropped in a puddle of slush. "Is that it?" He gulped some air and wheezed out quietly, "It's over?"

Chandler Harris, who was in much better shape, hoisted the camera to his shoulder and used the zoom lens to scope the scene. "What do you want to do, Lisa?" he murmured. It took a moment to focus on the subjects still some 10 yards away. "All we got a couple of guys hanging around by that van…the action looks like it all went inside."

Lisa stood straighter and smoothed her hair and hissed, "Fuck action." She turned to Denny, giving him a severe look. He picked up his equipment and got ready to move. "If I can get government denials, all anyone will remember are the questions."

Chan studied the image in the camera eyepiece. "These guys are nobodies, Lisa…no one will care if they deny stuff…they probably don't know anything. Crawford's not here, your subject is gone…I say we bag it."

If glares could cause bodily harm, Chan Harris would have burst into flames. She took a step toward him and reached up, grabbing the camera eyepiece to look for herself. "Well, it's a good thing I'm in charge…the man on the left? The civilian? That's Will Graham, the guy who caught Hannibal Lecter…he is GOLD, with or without our target."

Denny Park studied the VU meters on the sound pack slung over his shoulder and fiddled with a few dials. "I'm set."

Lisa King glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Good." Chan Harris took a deep breath and gave her an unenthusiastic thumbs up. She straightened her jacket as best she could with the cumbersome Second Chance vest underneath. "Follow my lead, boys…and Chan, keep the lights off until they notice us…I'm hoping we'll get all the way up there before they spot us."

Park and Harris nodded, "Check."

Head high, microphone at the ready, King marched forward.

The moment they left the shadows, Daisy reacted. Fast for such a large man, in seconds he'd drawn his weapon, pushed Graham back into the van and called for backup. "Stop where you are."

Chan switched on his camera lights, throwing the unfolding scene into sharp relief against the side of the FedEx terminal building. Lisa King didn't pause, but marched on brandishing her microphone like a miniature lance. "Is it true that the FBI is using FedEx to spirit one of the members of their Butcher Bird Task Force out of the area? That a personal threat has been received?"

Three of Sara's Ducks exploded out of the building followed closely by Security Chief Ed Cross.

Daisy's shout was deadly as he sighted on the bridge of King's nose, "You have been ordered to stop where you are…I won't warn you again."

King and company stopped cold, but the reporter did not miss a beat, "I am a member of the press in the pursuit of a legitimate news story."

Daisy allowed himself a quick breath. "You are on private property, Ms. King. You and your crew need to turn around and leave this area immediately."

The other three Ducks arranged themselves to cover the news crew while Ed Cross pushed forward, blunderbuss at the ready. When he recognized Lisa King it was all he could do not to fawn all over her (difficult as long as he continued to threaten her with a deadly weapon).

Dreams of fame pushed the little security chief forward: he holstered his sidearm and walked between Daisy and his target, beaming at Lisa King, "Now…now…let's not be hasty here. FedEx is always happy to assist the press in any way it can…"

King attempted to take Chief Cross's arm, Daisy and the other Ducks shouted at her to stay where she was, Cross whirled on the agents spewing orders without authority which they proceeded to ignore.

And then all Hell broke loose.

Shots rang out. King and her crew dropped into the half melted snow. Chief Cross writhed next to them on the ground, "I'm hit! I'm hit!"

The backup Ducks surrounded the news team, weapons still drawn, while Daisy attended to Chief Cross. "Officer down! Officer down! Call 911…" Blood had sprayed into the slush around the man and he was rolling around so much, it was hard to tell where he was hit.

Agony ripped the downed man's voice, "Help me…help me, please…I'm shot."

Daisy reholstered his weapon and set about evaluating Cross while the backup Ducks handcuffed the CNN group and called for cars to take them away.

Cross was white-faced and sweaty, rocking and moaning in pain.

"Head wound – no…gut shot – no." Big fast-killing wounds checked off, Daisy continued to look for the bullet hole.

He finally found one.

Chief Cross had been shot in the foot.

By a large caliber weapon.

Daisy sighed, noticing a nickel plated .44 poking out of the slush. When he picked it up, he realized it was the security chief's weapon. He tried to reassure the terrified little man, "You're going to be OK, Mr. Cross…"

Sirens could be heard in the near distance. Within seconds, Dulles Fire and Rescue rolled up on the scene and took over for Daisy. They, too, tried to reassure their patient: uncomforted, Chief Cross shrieked until the EMTs packed him up for the trip to the hospital. Within twenty minutes, calm returned to the parking lot outside the FedEx terminal.

Well, it was calmer.

Lisa King was nearly incoherent with rage to be in custody. "Do you know who I am?!? You have no right to detain me…I have broken no laws." While Denny and Chan stood quietly next to her, she was spitting and fighting with her Duck. "I demand that you release me and my colleagues this INSTANT! How dare you? How DARE YOU!"

Two unmarkeds arrived at that point. The agents conferred briefly with Daisy, then proceeded to place their detainees in the backseats of the cars as they intoned, "You are being placed under arrest for criminal trespass…you have the right to remain silent…"

The reporter was not listening. "Oh, no, you're not going to arrest me. I am LISA KING! I am a reporter with CNN! Get away from me!" King continued to resist all attempts to put her into a car.

Finally, Daisy had had enough. He nodded to the men who were to take the news crew to detention. They secured the other car and got into the driver and front passenger seats respectively. Lisa King thought she had actually won for a moment and shaken off the officer she'd been struggling with.

"That's right, now take these cuffs off and let me GO!" she screamed triumphantly, taking in the approaching Daisy. "You be a good boy, Big Fella, and I won't press charges for false arrest…"

Before she could really get rolling again, Daisy picked King up bodily and paced her inside the car as if she were a sack of potatoes. He stood, closed the door and hit the top of the car twice signaling their little problem was all in.

And that was that. The two unmarkeds rumbled off, the one carrying Lisa King rocking slightly.

Graham poked his head out of the van sporting an appreciative grin. "Way to go, Ike."

Daisy straightened his coat and smoothed back his hair. "Do not mess with the Ducks."

**Monday, January 8, 2007**** – ****11:30 pm**** – FedEx Facility at ****Dulles** **Airport**** – Crew Lounge **

* * *

Will Graham entered the Crew Lounge to find worried expressions on the faces of its occupants. Grissom anxiously peppered his friend with questions as he looked him over for injury. "Was that gunfire? Was anyone hurt? What's going on?" 

Graham raised his hands for quiet. "Everything is all right…yes, there was gunfire. Chief Cross…" he tried desperately not to smile, "shot himself in the foot and is going to be fine."

The Las Vegas CSIs and the flight crew crowded around to hear the story. Sara couldn't keep the hope off her face. "Was it Lark? Did you…is he…?"

"No, it wasn't, Sara…it was that reporter from CNN…" It hurt Will's heart to have to disappoint her.

As the story unfolded, the flight crew laughed to hear Chief Cross had been put in his place. He was nothing more than a glorified security guard and like many little men, lorded his position over them whenever he could. Secretly they hoped he would be laid up for a long, long time. When Will started to talk about the news team, they pulled away to get themselves organized for their pre-flight check, lingering only to glance curiously from Grissom to Graham, the men who might be twins.

Co-pilot West checked his watch as he zipped his wheelie closed. "George, I'm going to the head before we go."

"Me, too… Marburg?" Captain Jackson put on his jacket

The navigator shut his briefcase. "Nope, I'm going to get started with the pre-flight…see you guys on board."

Jackson nodded and pushed through the door into the Men's room, West on his heels. The co-pilot stopped and turned to the civilians, "Excuse me…sorry to interrupt, but the toilets on board our planes are nothing to write home about. Ms. Sidle, you might want to take care of things here before we board. You have about 10 minutes." When she nodded, he disappeared through the bathroom door.

Sara glanced down at her watch, twisting the band nervously around her wrist. Graham stopped recounting his story, "Go ahead, Sara…"

Grissom forced a smile. "This one _is_ probably cleaner…"

"Oh, all right…I want to hear the rest of your story, Will…wait until I get back to finish." As Sara walked toward the nearby Ladies' Room, one of her two remaining Ducks stepped into her path.

"What is it now?" When she realized the man intended to accompany her, Sara grumbled, exasperated, "Oh, for Christ's sake, I've been peeing by myself for 35 years now…can I have some privacy please?"

"I need to clear the area, Ms. Sidle…it'll only take a moment." The stone faced agent pushed the door open part way. "You can have your privacy just as soon as I'm satisfied the rest room is secure." He went into the Ladies' Room. Inside, stall doors banging open echoed in the large empty room.

Captain Jackson and co-pilot West emerged from the Men's Room at that moment. They nodded to the stewing Sara and approached Grissom and Graham.

Sara's Duck came out of the Ladies'. "All clear, Ms. Sidle..." She blasted into the room, very annoyed.

"Mr. Grissom…" Jackson started, glancing at Graham who had not been introduced, "Uh…it's been a pleasure. I'm sorry to have met under these circumstances. We'll watch out for Ms. Sidle and get her safely to her destination…"

Gil reached out and shook both men's hands. "Thank you. I appreciate that…thank you for everything."

Captain Jackson exited the Crew Lounge toward his waiting plane, followed by co-pilot West, wheelie in tow.

Graham mused, "You should have seen Daisy pick up that King woman and toss her in the back of the unmarked. Her face went such a deep red, I thought she was going to have a stroke."

Grissom smiled, imagining the aggressive reporter thwarted by the mountainous Daisy. "Did they manage to get any film? We do not need to see this on the air…"

Will shook his head, "If they got anything as they were running up to us, it was shut down pretty quick…" He chuckled, remembering, "Though I kind of hope there's footage of Cross shooting himself in the foot…"

"For legal puposes?" Grissom didn't get the joke.

"Well, Daisy was so mad, I actually thought he might shoot that idiot, but no…" Graham checked his watch, "For proof that Barney Fife had ammo in his elephant gun…I didn't see him take a bullet from his pocket, did you?"

"Not before he left us…" Grissom's brow furrowed. "Wonder what's taking Sara so long?"

Will's stomach flipped over. "Me, too."

Both men approached the door to the Ladies' Room. Grissom knocked and called out, "Sara, are you all right? It's almost time to leave."

No answer.

Alarmed, the two Ducks in the room converged on the bathroom door.

Gil called again, "Sara…answer me."

Graham said what Grissom feared but couldn't get out. "Something's wrong."

Four men burst through the door into the Crew Lounge Ladies Room, two with weapons drawn, looking frantically for Sara Sidle.

But the room was empty.

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 35 will be posted on Sunday, September 23**_


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.

**A/N: **Special thanks to my friends** csishewolf, vrtrakowski, smacky30, scifijoan **and** mingsmommy** who have given me invaluable feedback on this story and supported me throughout this process.

This story is a crossover between _CSI_ and _Manhunter (Red Dragon)._ William Petersen created an enigmatic and tortured character in FBI Agent Will Graham. Some say he reprised the character when creating Gil Grissom. _Dead Ringer_ throws Gil Grissom and Will Graham together as they try to sort out a series of murders so horrible they rival the crimes of Hannibal Lecter. This story takes place in _CSI_ Season 7. There are references to _CSI_ Season 1, _Strip Strangler_.

_**AN IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULING:** __Projected post date will appear at the end of each chapter. Should there be any change in this schedule, visit my FFNET profile for a link to my LJ: I post delays and other update information ahead of time there with the tag fanfiction._

THIS STORY IS ON TEMPORARY HIATUS.

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE**

**The ****Mission**

_When you discover your mission, you will feel its demand.  
And it will fill you with enthusiasm and a burning desire to get to work on it.  
W. Clement Stone_

**July 1983 – ****Duluth** **Minnesota**

* * *

Justice Lark continued to live modestly even after he made his first million. He retained his warehouse apartment, his Salvation Army wardrobe and his routine. He even kept the long hair and the beard. Every evening he'd stroll around the red light district, chat up the hookers, have dinner at the Superior Bar and Grill and then it was home to manage inventory and the books.

Once his work day was done, he'd visit the girls again, this time choosing one for the evening. He became known as a good customer because he didn't hit or try to rip anyone off and, a bonus, he tipped generously.

Pimps do not want to chat about how their ladies' day went, but Justice did. He heard all kinds of amusing gossip that he filed away for later. Duluth politicians, captains of industry and church leaders had no idea their secret liaisons were being carefully cataloged by the town's richest pornographer. Amazing how the same names kept cropping up in mail order, too. Lark could never figure that out…just how stealthy did these people think they were, using their real names?

Roger Culpepper was well known among Lark's 'girlfriends.' He usually appeared on Wednesday evenings while the wife went to Novena at St. Mary Star of the Sea. Because of his age and girth, he only bought oral sex and the occasional hand job. A bit more unusual were the names he called out during climax. For awhile it had been _Albert_ (Albert Dinwiddy, mayor of Duluth, perhaps?), but all during the spring and summer of '83 it was _Jeff_ which just happened to coincide with the arrival of a new clerk in his court, Jefferson Mosby.

xxx

The sleeping woman had wrapped herself around him, clinging to him like hope. Raven haired and doe eyed, he called her Kitten for her tiny voice and for the way she purred beneath his hands. Quality goods as hookers went.

Morning light filtered through the K-Mart curtains she'd hung at the window in an effort to give her rooms a little flair. The effect in daylight was disappointing. Carefully extracting himself from her grasp, he reached above his head to pull down the room darkening shade. Much better.

When his movements roused her, she pulled him close again before the day could steal her dreams completely, mumbling. "No…no, not yet."

"Sorry, Kitten. I've got to go," he said quietly, loosening her arms where they circled his chest.

Fully awake, she practically sprang away from him. Fantasies were one thing but this was business and Johns don't like clingy girls. "Sure…sure."

Justice Lark had already put on his prosthesis. He got up to go the bathroom. That done he came back and slipped into his jeans. Kitten blinked muzzily, presenting an almost irresistible tableau to the man. Cock stirring, he briefly considered another go. But he had things to do and people to see. Play time would have to wait.

He put on his chambray shirt without stopping to button it and then sat on the edge of the bed to get a sock and shoe on his good foot. Kitten rose and knelt behind him, combing his long hair with her fingers. "Thanks for the ride, Fellini."

All the girls called him Fellini. They had some idea he was important in the film industry. Even after he used them in a few XXX-rated shorts, they never realized his projects only aspired to be good enough for Crown News and the men on their mailing list. Dreams died very hard for them.

Lark rose from the bed buttoning his shirt. "Thank _you_, Kitten." Once the buttons were done he fished out his wallet and gave her three, fifty dollar bills. "Thank you very much," he smiled.

Kitten still knelt on the bed, prettily mussed. She clutched the money in one hand. "That judge you're always asking about…he was back the other night."

Justice shrugged on his fatigue jacket. "Yeah?"

The girl got up and put her money in the bedside table. "Yeah, only this time he wasn't alone…he had some pretty boy with him."

"Really? That's new," he observed.

"Yeah…Angel did 'em. She said the old man just watched while the youngun' banged her. He wasn't very gentle, either." Kitten donned a little pink acetate robe. "Back door man, if you know what I mean," she wrinkled her nose disapprovingly.

Justice Lark fought the urge to vomit, only partly because of the act referred to. "Did Angel say anything else about the pretty boy?"

Kitten lit a cigarette and opened the door of the refrigerator in her little kitchenette, bending at the waist to peruse its contents. "Just that the geezer introduced him as his son…_yeah, riiiight_."

"He didn't give a name, did he?" Lark whispered, so distracted he was completely uninterested in the woman's bare ass peeping out from under her robe.

"Yeah…the old man called him Rick…why?"

When she turned back to Fellini, carton of orange juice in hand, her apartment door was standing open and the man was gone.

xxx

In the summer of 1983, Rick Culpepper was home from college having just received a BS in Psychology from the University of Michigan. By July, his father's pique that he had not majored in law had eased enough to treat them both to a trip 'downtown.' The judge was not so naive as to think this was the boy's first time, but he was a little shocked at the way Rick turned that poor girl every way but loose. The old man hadn't climaxed more than once in a row for at least 10 years. Watching his boy fuck that girl's brain out was…moving. A memorable night, that.

Young Culpepper spent the summer playing tennis at the Ridgeview Country Club, hanging out with friends at the family's 'cottage' on Lake Superior, or tooling around town in his Dad's bright red 1954 MG TF (promised as a graduation gift but never given).

Graduate school was on the horizon, the weather was mild, the old man was off his back, and all was right with the world. Or so he thought.

It's not that difficult to shadow a man who has no idea he's being followed. Once his identical twin tripped his radar, Justice Lark found himself so preoccupied he was almost unable to work. His father's voice echoed in his head with words Lark thought he'd left far behind in International Falls.

_'Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice; but only accident here below. Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death.'_

For all his money and success Justice was a product of his past. He never understood how much until his other half – the part with two sound legs – waltzed into his life that summer morning. Much of the music in his own life started to fade then, replaced more and more by the drums of Honor's old obsession.

xxx

Angel Kent was suspicious, "Why do you want to know about Back Door Man? What's he to you?"

Lark's smile widened. "You know me, honey…I want to know about all your customers…it turns me on." He draped his arm loosely around the dark haired woman's shoulders, fondling her stretch-lace clad upper arm.

Kent fiddled with the ruffle at the edge of her sleeve. "You don't usually start out this way, Fellini…" She looked up at him to see her worried face twinned in his mirrored sunglasses. It would have been so much easier if she could see his eyes.

Justice Lark backed off cursing himself silently. His preoccupation with Culpepper was screwing up his timing and it would never do to spook Angel whose drug use made sure she was always knocking on paranoia's door. "Look, honey, maybe tonight isn't a good night for us…I see DeeDee over there. Maybe I should just go party with her…"

There was an almost audible screech as Angel switched gears. If she did Fellini, she'd have her quota for the night and then some – Tyrone would be happy and she could get off her feet. "Come on, Fellini…you don't want to go with her."

"I don't?"

"Naw…she don't know the Back Door Man like I do…" Angel moved close to Lark and pressed herself against his crotch. "I've got stories…"

Justice let his hand drop down to squeeze her ass. "You do?" His words were seductive but his stomach was churning.

"Honey…you've got your hand on a goldmine…"

xxx

Culpepper had a definite taste for Duluth's darker pleasures which made him pretty easy to follow. He didn't gamble or do drugs, but his cock did demand quite a bit of attention. Justice could practically track his movements by looking out his apartment window.

What the girls reported about Rick painted a picture of a spoiled and decadent rich kid. He might go for straight sex once in awhile and even the occasional BJ, but he wasn't called Back Door Man for nothing.

Judge Culpepper and his wife provided their only son with virtually unlimited funds and freedom. The one thing missing from Rick's life was sole ownership of his dad's little sports car. Quick to anger, he often raged against his father's broken promise about that car, making the girls he hired wonder who Rick was really fucking up the ass.

Each piece of information Justice uncovered turned his stomach and upped the volume of that old voice inside his head.

_'Judgment is as sure as death.' _

Oh, there were other voices. Lark knew his Bible, still believed in God and felt Him in his heart.

_Judge not lest ye be judged._ Matthew 7:1

_Let he who is without sin cast the first sin cast the first stone. _John 8:7

_Do not hate your brother in your heart. _Leviticus 19:17-18

Much easier said than done.

**April 1984 – ****Duluth** **Minnesota**

* * *

_"On this the fourth anniversary of Operation Eagle Claw, former President Carter's failed attempt to rescue the hostages from Iran, let us take the opportunity to remember a local boy who gave his life trying to save others. Timothy Harper was just 18 years old when he died…" _

Justice Lark skimmed the article as he did most of what he found in the Local section of the _Duluth News Tribune_. Every now and then the Judge or his boy turned up there at some social event. Those stories and any accompanying pictures got clipped and filed…for later.

This story was of no particular interest until he flipped the section over. There, below the fold, was a picture of Grace Harper alongside the one of her dead brother, Timmy.

1979. St. Cloud University. Freshman English. There had been over 100 students in the class: he'd sat in the back of the auditorium and she had sat in the front, but he'd noticed her. Dark hair falling to her waist, slim hips, legs that went on forever…those qualities alone caught his interest.

But when she'd turned to chat with a friend, a smile lit her face and he was lost. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

No girl had ever throttled him with her presence this way…and none had since. He'd thought her gone, like his college career, but there was no mistaking that face or those eyes beckoning to him from the paper.

In those days he'd never had the courage or the time to pursue her. But this wasn't 1979. This was 1984 and he was no longer some bumpkin from Up North…

_"I loved my brother Tim. Love…I still love him. I'm trying to raise money to fund a scholarship in his memory. They tell me 5,000.00 is the minimum endowment for a perpetual scholarship, so that's what I'm doing. Please…if you knew Tim, and even if you didn't, honor his sacrifice..." _

Before the paper hit the floor, he was out of his chair and dialing the phone. He thought he might make a donation.

**August 1985 – ****Duluth** **Minnesota**

* * *

Grace Harper led a simple life. She shared an apartment with several other girls on the north side of town. She went to work every day at _GH Associates_, an up and coming fundraising company she'd put together over the last year. Most days she came straight home from work, but sometimes she stopped at the gym or the grocery store.

It was hard to tell if there were men in her life. A few men visited the apartment, but at least one of her roommates was always home so Justice Lark couldn't be certain which girl received the callers. There didn't seem to be anyone special in her life, which was a huge relief…perhaps he had a chance.

Over the course of the last year Grace had had remarkable success raising money. The _Timothy Harper Memorial Scholarship _had topped out at 15,000, more than enough to endow it in perpetuity.

Another cause she'd been involved with, _North Shore Conservation_, had raised 50,000 toward its efforts to preserve native species in and around Lake Superior. It was that achievement which got attention in the papers. NSC had been struggling to stay afloat but when Grace Harper joined the fight, money practically fell from the sky.

The local animal shelter approached her and they had a new building within 3 months.

A women's shelter asked for her help and they raised enough money to expand their services to nearby counties.

The real kicker was The True Vine Church, a humble storefront near the red light district that serviced everyone who came through their doors. Hookers, homeless, the lost and the forgotten of Duluth went there for solace, a hot meal and a bed for the night. An electrical fire in the Chinese restaurant next door spread and the church, along with every other building on the block, was destroyed.

The property owners saw their chance to unload for big bucks, so they sold out to a developer who refused to renew leases, instead announcing plans for huge multi-level parking garage.

The mayor and city council came down in favor of new development (and a percentage of the parking fees). A group of concerned citizens waged a campaign to block the sale and rebuild the church and local small businesses for the good of the surrounding community.

Grace Harper joined the fight to save the block. What happened next was nothing less than a miracle. An anonymous donor bought the property out from under the developer and donated it back to the church. Who can resist such an underdog story? Local Minnesotans ate it up and Grace Harper became Duluth's darling.

Everything the woman touched turned to gold. She decided to capitalize on her success and _GH Associates _was born. At 24, Grace Harper was well on her way to a satisfying consulting career as well as a small fortune. She couldn't believe her luck.

But it wasn't luck.

It was Lark.

Justice Lark backed each of her projects, making sure money trickled into the charities' coffers in an unremarkable way. Sure, there were more than the usual number of anonymous donors, but as the numbers went from good to great to astounding, all anyone could think about were grand totals far greater than they'd dared hope.

So Grace continued to live a quiet life unaware of her Angel. If she'd looked around more often she'd have seen him watching over her.

At least, he thought of it as watching over her.

Grace might have used another word.

**January 1987 – ****Duluth** **Minnesota**

* * *

He called her Kitten and she didn't mind because it beat the shit out of Phyllis…Mama named her after her dead sister, which was OK, she guessed, except she like to died in high school. None of the cool kids was named Phyllis.

Fellini was one of her best and oldest customers, going on five years. She didn't really think of him as a John because …well, he was just different. She knew he liked her. Like, _liked_ her, liked her. He brought her stuff and not just stuff to get in her pants. She'd have froze during the winter of '84 if he hadn't give her that heater.

And he leaned on Tyrone after that fucker beat her up. She didn't want a pimp so Ty decided he'd just ruin her face and put her outta business. Well, she might be a whore but she was nobody's property. Fellini took her to the emergency room to get fixed up. While she was healing a Fast Foo's guy showed up every day with soup which was good 'cause she couldn't eat nuthin' with a wired up jaw…he never said but she figured Fellini sent that soup.

Strange guy, Fellini…she'd never been with an amputee before but he cold fuck better'n most guys with two legs, so that was OK. _Horny_ bastard. Once was never enough…she'd get kinda raw after four or five. Lucky she kept lotsa lube around or she'd a dried up like a prune. He didn't mind…fact he was kinda sweet about it and got it out of the drawer himself. She 'sposed he didn't want to fuck sandpaper 'cause that's what it felt like when she ran dry.

He slept at her place a lot, which was sorta weird. Most Johns did their business and practically ran outta there…afraid she was catchy or somethin.' Fellini wanted to sleep after he ran down. So did she, to tell the truth. She'd never seen nobody have the kinda dreams he had, though. Always cryin' for Mama and yellin' for his daddy to shutupshutupshutup. It was sorta sad. She'd had lotsa bad dreams herself. If he'd have let her, she'd have held him or somethin' but he wouldn't have it, mumblin' about he was a man and didn't need no babyin.' So, she just let him be.

One time she kinda thought he might be sweet on her…a girl could tell when a boy liked her'n all. She wanted to get married and maybe have a kid one day…you know, after she was done with her career. She was sorta thinkin' he might be The One…for awhile there she was the only gal he'd go with and he bought her flowers once. Oh, and a box of them 'spensive chocolates from Germany or someplace. But that didn't last long…he started sayin' another girl's name when they were fucking and even she knew you didn't do that when you were really likin' somebody.

Jus' like you didn't pay 'em to sleep with you. She knew what she was.

And she knew what she wasn't – a doormat who let every man passin' through beat the shit outta her'n her kids. You had to pay for what you got from Kitten Carson and she had a baseball bat standin' by for creeps who thought they could swipe her money or rough her up. She even had 15,000 saved up and was gonna quit the business soon. Real soon.

Soon as she figured out her next move.

**October 1989 – ****Duluth** **Minnesota**

* * *

As the years went by, Justice Lark found himself busier than ever. Building his financial empire ate up most of his time. The pornography and video industry was in a state of flux with new technology being introduced every few months. As soon as an innovation looked like it was going to take off, Justice bought a company that made, imported or serviced it. He acquired property and businesses all over the country. Little by little, he came to have control over every part of his supply chain. Profits soared.

His hobbies or rather, his obsessions, took time, too. Grace Harper was on the go, traveling in the Midwest for her flourishing consulting business. It turned out Miss Harper had an instinct about causes: she didn't need Lark's secret support to push a fundraising campaign over the top. He kept contributing, of course, as a kind of tithe and as a way to feel close to the woman who had so captured his heart. He watched over her when she was in town – fantasies of meeting her quickened his breath and made his cock ache…plans he knew deep down would never amount to anything.

Following the Culpeppers got a bit complicated when Rick went into the FBI, necessitating trips out east to keep an eye on him. Once the young agent was stationed in Washington, DC, Lark bought a warehouse in Georgetown. Hotels were notoriously expensive in the Nation's Capital: Justice saw no reason to waste money when he could invest it instead.

Kitten continued to be a presence in Lark's life. She wasn't a girlfriend or even a confidante, but she was a soft place to land. He liked her company. He also liked fucking her, satisfying his sexual needs so he could concentrate on business. He still had no idea how often he called out Grace's name during sex and if he knew how much Kitten had put together about his lonely childhood he would have been mortified.

The working girl in question made the most of her good fortune. Leaving the business someday actually seemed possible when she opened her passbook and watched her savings grow. Having a patron was different than being owned by a pimp. For one thing, Fellini never took her money or beat her if she was too sick to work. He paid her, too…every single time…though she would have done him for free if he'd asked.

None of the people in this story…not Justice, Rick or Roger Culpepper, Grace Harper or Kitten Carson…had any idea how much their lives were about to change.

All because of a case of mistaken identity.

**November 1989 – ****Duluth** **Minnesota**

* * *

"Would you do me up, Dear?" Dorothy Culpepper turned her bare back toward her son. Rick pushed away from the doorframe where he'd been leaning as his mother got dressed. A cloud of _Bal a Versailles_ assailed him as he raised the delicate tab on her zipper.

Culpepper backed away quickly, clearing his throat. "I think you went a little overboard on the perfume, Mom."

Dorothy studied herself in the mirror only half listening to her son. "What's that, Dear?"

"Nothing, Mom." He checked his watch, "When does this thing get started?"

A flip of her manicured hand dismissed his unasked question. "Oh, we have plenty of time…and you won't have to stay that long, I promise…I know you have an early flight back to Washington." She bent forward and erased a smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, then fluffed her hair one last time. "I just want you to be with me when Morris Dees arrives."

Rick fiddled with the studs of his tuxedo shirt. "Isn't Dad on the Board that invited Dees to speak?"

Dorothy grabbed the full length chinchilla coat draped on the bed and handed it to her son. "Oh, Rick, your father is just hopeless at social events. You've seen him." Coat on, she paused once more at the mirror. "He sets up near the bar and holds court…someone like Morris Dees shouldn't have to queue up to pay his respects…"

"All right…all right…" Hand on his mother's back, he tried to propel her forward, "Let's get this show on the road."

Mrs. Culpepper turned to brush some non-existent dust from her boy's tuxedo. "Oh, Rick…I wish you'd get into the spirit of these things…there will probably be some nice young women there." Her brow furrowed at the cold reception the bait she'd dangled had received. "You're as bad as your father." The exquisitely dressed woman whirled, picked up her evening bag from the table by the door and marched out of the house in a huff.

A half grin played on Rick's lips as he strolled out the door after her. "Why, thank you…I try…"

xxx

Grace Harper was floating on air. It was one thing to be asked to head the Minnesota Bar Association's annual charity fundraising effort, it was another to have gotten Morris Dees, one of the founders of The Southern Poverty Law Center, to serve as co-chair.

This year's cause was a victim's rights fund which had been struggling to make ends meet for several years. Grace heard about it and helped them keep their doors open with some independent fund raising in 1988 and '89. It had taken some doing, but she'd gotten the Minnesota Bar to adopt the fund for 1990. With any luck, the money from the Bar's efforts would revitalize the fund's endowment for a long, long time.

The reception was well under way when Grace made her third circuit around the room. Dees turned out to be a charmer, excellent for the cause. All she had to do was point him at the lights of Duluth society and he turned into a money machine. He didn't have bills stuffed into his pants, but check after check was pressed into her hand in Dees's wake.

Grace recognized Dorothy Culpepper as the wife of Federal Circuit Court Judge Roger Culpepper, a power in the Minnesota Bar Association. She'd already greeted the Judge and his usual crowd at a table near the bar. The wife had just bustled in on the arm of a striking young man. As she maneuvered Dees across the room, Mrs. Culpepper's escort turned and their eyes met.

Grace Harper was not a fanciful woman. She didn't believe in love at first sight or any of the clichés about instant attraction. But she'd never experienced anything quite like this. If she were honest, she'd have admitted there was something about this man that set her belly fluttering. Suddenly the modest black silk sheath she was wearing felt too tight. Her breath quickened and she started to sweat.

Rick Culpepper had just stifled a yawn when he noticed a striking, dark haired woman crossing the room toward him and his mother on the arm of the guest of honor. He was just about to tap Dorothy on the shoulder to alert her when their eyes met. Instantly alert, he revised his opinion of the reception upward and unconsciously smoothed his hair.

Slightly flushed, Grace made the introductions. "Mrs. Culpepper, I'm so pleased you could join us this evening." Her gaze flickered over Dorothy's companion and her face felt hot. "I'd like to introduce Morris Dees…"

"Mr. Dees…It is a pleasure. My husband and I do so admire your work." Dorothy instantly commandeered the guest of honor, leaving Rick and Grace to size each other up.

He recovered first, "Good evening. I am Rick Culpepper and you are…?"

"Grace…um" She was distracted by something in his eyes…and an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

Rick tilted his head and smiled. "Grace Um…pleased to meet you." There was amusement in his voice. He had her…he knew he had her. He didn't know quite why, but his evening was definitely looking up.

Grace continued to stare at Rick Culpepper for long moments. When he winked at her, she took in a sudden deep breath. "Sorry…I was staring…that's so rude." She tried to cover her embarrassment.

His mother and Dees had left them and were now working their way around the room. Rick nodded at the pair. "I hope you didn't have plans for him. Mom will never let him go now that she's got her hooks in him." He chuckled, hoping his joke would give the lovely Grace time to recover.

"It's Harper…Grace Harper."

Rick extended his hand. "_My pleasure_, Grace Harper."

Her brow furrowed. "Do we know each other, Mr. Culpepper?"

"Rick, please…I don't think so…"

Grace continued to study his face. "You look so familiar to me…perhaps we met in college?"

"It's possible…I went to Michigan. You?"

She shook her head, as if to clear it. " St. Cloud…I'm sorry to keep staring, but you really do remind me of someone."

Rick looked around and saw his mother was happily engaged by the bar. He whispered conspiratorially. "You know, you remind me of someone, too."

Her eyes widened. "Oh really, who?"

"The most beautiful woman in this room…"

xxx

In an hour, Grace Harper had taken Rick Culpepper home to bed.

Within a week, she'd flown to DC on a fund raising trip that included several nights at Rick's Georgetown apartment. They didn't leave the bedroom for three days. For the first time ever, _GH Associates _failed to meet its fundraising goal.

In a month, Grace was deeply in love and unbeknownst to her, pregnant with Rick's child.

In two months they were engaged.

They were married on the three month anniversary of their first meeting. Judge Culpepper presided and Dorothy wept for days. The couple had no time for a honeymoon because Grace was busy moving her business east. Rick did arrange for a weekend at the Willard Hotel before he was called out of town on a case. Oddly, the tires of the entire wedding party were slashed during the brief ceremony. That case was never solved.

Grace miscarried at home alone six months after she met her husband. Rick found her unconscious on the floor of their bathroom when he came in at two a.m. from a tour around Vermont Avenue. Several days later while Grace was recuperating, Rick's car was set on fire: it was a total loss. That case was never solved, either.

The couple limped along for another two months before Grace packed her bags and went back to Duluth. The divorce was final a year later.

Two years after that, Grace Harper took a handful of pills and joined her loved ones on the other side.

Through it all, Justice Lark watched in agony.

xxx

Duluth went into mourning when Grace Harper died. People she'd helped came out of the woodwork to attend her funeral which had to be moved twice to accommodate the crowds of mourners. A scholarship was quickly established in her name.

The _Duluth News Tribune_ ran a series of articles highlighting her work with sidebars recounting the tragedies in her life: her sister Polly's long ago death in a boating accident, the loss of the family Cadillac dealership, her father's suicide on the one year anniversary of Polly's death, and Timothy's heroic sacrifice.

Very little was said about her divorce and the possible connection the failed marriage might have had to her death. Such was the power of her ex-father-in-law. Privately, people who knew the Judge and his son nodded sagely and pitied the poor woman for marrying into that family.

Justice Lark was devastated.

He'd failed. He had failed Grace and himself by not taking care of her. He never let her know she wasn't alone or that she was thoroughly and completely loved. He'd been so enraged at the cruelty of Fate for handing his dream, his soul mate and his life to the bastard who kept getting his Blessings, he'd neglected to help her. He had failed to save her.

It was in these moments that he missed his mother most. No matter how much the other kids teased him for his missing leg or his odd family, no matter how difficult Papa was and no matter how he bled from the beatings, Mama was always there to love the pain away. Now, for the first time since her death, he felt that loss more keenly than the day she died.

Bewildered and hurting, weighed down by pain and anger, he sought comfort in the one place he'd allowed himself to rest since coming to Duluth. Justice went to see his Kitten.

**June 1992 – ****Duluth** **Minnesota**

* * *

When he finally showed up at her door, sorrow was carved into his face. Kitten immediately took him to her bed where he made slow sweet love to her then collapsed and sobbed into her shoulder. He fell asleep in her arms.

A deep chill descended on the room as the sun went down. She hated to wake him, but if she didn't do something soon, her apartment would be cold for hours. Carefully she slid out of bed and turned the portable heater he'd given her several years before to High, grabbed her robe and dove back beneath the covers.

Fellini blinked groggily. "What time is it?"

"I don't know, honey…" She snuggled up to him, soaking up the warmth of his body. "Dark."

He sat up and immediately pulled the quilt up to his chin. "Shit, it's cold in here."

Kitten poked her nose out from under the covers. "Sorry, I've turned up the heat…it'll warm up soon"

Fellini reached for his leg. "Guess I'll have to pee quick, then."

While he was in the bathroom, Kitten added socks to her ensemble. "It's good to see you, honey…I've missed you."

"Yeah?" His smile was still sad.

"Yeah…and I've got a surprise for you." It had been two months since Fellini had been by. She pulled a video tape out of her bedside table drawer and placed it in his hand. "I've been dying to show it to you…I put your video equipment to good use," she grinned.

"You've been filming again…" he observed as he handed the tape back to her. His cock stiffened involuntarily and his voice was husky, "Show me…" Fellini sat on the end of the bed.

Her pussy was still glistening with their first encounter he noted as she bent over to insert the tape. He couldn't help but fist himself…she did have a tight little pussy. Not yet thirty, Kitten had been a working girl for a dozen years, yet somehow, it had not taken the toll on her like it did the other girls. She didn't have the brassy, used up, old-before-their-time look most of them had. And the goods, amazingly, were still quality.

The screen flickered as the tape got going. She backed up the few steps to the bed. Her legs fell open slightly when he pulled her down into his lap and his hand was instantly buried there, skating over the sensitive tissue slick with their mingled fluids. Kitten leaned against him and extended her neck in order to reach his lips. As they concentrated on the feel of their tongues moving together, she reached down to palm the head of his cock trapped against her thigh.

Sounds from the television started to filter into their experience. "You're going to love this…watch…" she cooed, happy and proud.

On screen, Kitten's video self began to entertain two men – one young, one older. The light in the room was not great so the faces were not clearly visible. The older man opened his pants and withdrew his stiffening penis. "Suck it, baby…suck me..."

Video Kitten removed her robe and bent from the waist. Licking her palms for lubrication, she pumped the man briefly before taking him in her mouth.

Fellini shifted beneath the real life Kitten. "I've never seen you do two…do you like it, doing two cocks at once?"

"Do you like watching me do two?"

"Oh, yes," he whispered as his fingers worked their way inside her. She giggled. "And when you see what I did for you, you're gonna love it." And me, she thought privately.

The two men on the screen were now fully engaged with video Kitten, one in her mouth and the other behind. Sound quality on the tape was not the best, but the voices were pretty clear. "Get in her, son…open her up and ram it in her."

Fellini started to push the willing woman back onto the bed when he stopped and looked back at the screen. He couldn't have recognized that voice could he?

The younger man raised his fingers to his lips, carrying away spit which he transferred to the head of his cock. "Relax baby…the Back Door Man is coming in."

Understanding exploded into Lark's consciousness. The Judge and his son…

The time stamp ticked away in the lower right hand corner of the screen: 02:28:92 18: 02:45…46…47…48…

February 28, 1992… 6:02 p.m.

Grace had been found dead early that same morning.

On screen, video Kitten grimaced as Rick Culpepper forced himself into her back passage. "Oh, yeah…that's good…relax baby, don't tense up…"

The Judge grabbed roughly at video Kitten's breast with one hand as he forced her head back down to his crotch. "Break time's over…get busy…"

Justice Lark stood abruptly, spilling Kitten into the floor. "Hey…that hurt!" She took one look at his face and for the first time since she'd known him, was afraid.

The video Judge grunted his pleasure. "I should take you home, baby…keep you just so you can suck me off…"

Rick Culpepper's video self laughed. "Would have to be better than what we ended up with…like that cold bitch I married…" Culpepper grasped video Kitten's hips and pulled her roughly backward onto his cock. "Guess she's really cold now, eh Dad?"

Judge Culpepper burst out laughing just as he came and even though video Kitten tried to keep hold of him, he sprayed semen all over her and the rest of the room.

Real life Kitten struggled to her feet but Justice swept her out of the way. His eyes were riveted in horror to the images unrolling before his eyes. _Grace…Grace…his beloved Grace… _

Both of those men _laughed_ at his poor dead Grace while Rick was… "You…you…" He felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest. He grabbed Kitten by the shoulders and cried in her face, "Oh, my God…tell me he didn't…"

"What? He didn't what?" The frightened girl struggled. "You're hurting me, Fellini."

Unbidden, a list of Biblical laws and prohibitions cascaded in his memory…

_…And if a man shall take his brother's wife, it is an unclean thing._ Leviticus 20:21

"Unclean…un_clean_…ruined…he's ruined everything…" he muttered.

Kitten fought against the fingers pressing painfully against her bones. "Hey, that's from the Bible, right?" Scared, confused, she couldn't make sense of his reaction. "Look, I'm sorry…I don't, I mean, I didn't…please...let me go."

"Sodomy…" Emotion crumpled his face as he pleaded with her. "He took you? He fucked you?"

Crying now, Kitten was frantic, "Please, Fellini…"

In an instant, confusion was obliterated as rage flooded his brain. "My _brother_ fucked you up the ass?" Revulsion shuddered through him and he pushed her away, hard.

Suddenly, Kitten was falling backward. Her arms flailed as she tried to grab anything that might break her fall. The nearby space heater overturned and landed on top of her; the lamp on the bedside table shattered on the floor. Her eyes were wild until her head struck the radiator against the wall.

Then they were simply eyes open in the face of a dead woman.

Justice stood completely still. The video behind him had finished and the room was filled with the sound of static and his own labored breathing. Slowly the contents of her loosening bowels crept into the room, new smells mingling with the scent of sex, blood and smoldering flesh.

He knew when he approached her that she was dead. Still, he knelt and patted her hand, calling her name. "Kitten, oh God…Kitten…I didn't mean it…"

Trembling hands felt for a pulse that wasn't there. The enormity of what he'd done crashed down on him. He'd taken a life…but, but…Culpepper…he was the one…

The roar in his ears knocked him on his ass. _"Will you take up your Destiny now, Son?"_

Confused, Lark tried to look behind himself. "Papa?"

_"Foolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is delayed, there is no justice; but only accident here below. Judgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two, some century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death."_

Justice shook his head and got to his knees. "What have I done? What have I done?" Tears overflowed and dropped onto his heaving chest.

Honor's voice seemed to come from everywhere. _"Have you forgotten Jacob and Esau? Who has stolen your birthright? Now will you make him pay?" _

Openly weeping, Lark cradled Kitten's cooling fingers to his cheek. "Forgive me, Lord…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…"

_"There shall be no forgiveness as long as Judgment is unsatisfied!" _

"Mama? Mama, are you there? Help me…what have I done?" An unsteady hand reached out to right the space heater that was lying against Kitten's flesh. If she'd been alive, she'd have had a nasty burn. Dead, there was an orderly grid of charred flesh around a single word in the center:

…mission…

Justice looked from the burn to the heater. A dozen raised metal letters spelled out the manufacturer's name – _Anoissimette_ – only seven had marked her body.

The letters seemed to dance on her skin through the tears in his eyes. Mission…mission…mission…

_"You have a __Mission__, Son." _

"A Mission?" Lark's words were uncertain.

_"If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out…" _

His voice was stronger. "Pluck it out…pluck _him_ out…"

_"You must carry on and see that JUSTICE IS DONE." _

The naked man rose painfully from the floor never taking his eyes from the dead girl at his feet. With what felt like his last breath, Lark whispered, "Justice is done."

_**To Be Continued...Chapter 36 will be posted on Sunday, October 7**_


End file.
